


Thin Blue Flame

by jaxington



Series: Roll On [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Coming Out, Homophobia, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2018-08-23 08:17:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 124,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8320630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaxington/pseuds/jaxington
Summary: The tiny, blond lump in the bed, his name is Steve Rogers.  It comes back to him while he sleeps.  He closes his eyes thinking about the lump and he wakes up with a name, like he’d never lost it.Steven Grant Rogers.He was important, once.  The soldier can’t figure out why. In which Bucky Barnes makes his way back to Brooklyn and Rachel Rosenbaum helps him figure out what's important.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part 3. Here we go. It's Bucky time.
> 
> This was beta read by the amazing [Di](http://queerladydi.tumblr.com/) and the awesome AJ. They have saved the day with their excellent editing skills and really made this story so much better.
> 
> Again, this is mostly (I hope) historically accurate. A lot of history and head canons come from [hansbekhart's](http://hansbekhart.tumblr.com/) [How To Brooklyn Series](http://hansbekhart.tumblr.com/tagged/how%20to%20brooklyn) which is seriously is the best. All the Jewish stuff/yiddish comes from my own elderly bubbe.

He stands under the bridge and the target says _Bucky_.

He stands under the bridge and the target says _Bucky,_ with a stupidly shocked expression on his face.

He stands under the bridge and the target says _Bucky,_ with a stupidly shocked expression on his perfect fucking face, and suddenly the soldier doubts.

Doubting is dangerous.  

It’s a lesson he learned long ago.  Even if the details of that lesson are gone, the fear remains, the pain an echo of an echo.  Doubting hurts.  He is not in the business of doubting.  He is in the business of compliance, of loyalty, of obedience and efficiency.  The business of blood.

His handlers tell him that a target is a danger to their higher mission, that it’s the soldier’s duty to exterminate the threat, for the good of humanity, for world peace, and he believes them willingly, because he is also not in the business of choosing.  He hasn’t doubted their mission in decades.

Until the target says _Bucky_.

The target says _Bucky_ and the soldier doesn’t just doubt this mission, he doubts everything they told him, all the lessons he learned through pain and torment, all the purpose they poured into massive, empty spaces left in his head with wipe, after wipe, after wipe, after wipe.

The target says _Bucky_ and he doesn’t _want_ to be the Fist of Hydra.  The target says _Bucky_ and he remembers what it means to want.

He wants to steal his target away, to lock them both up somewhere safe – no place safe exists for him, that’s another lesson – and demand that the target keep saying _Bucky_.  He wants to run his thumbs over the target’s cheekbones and stare.  He wants the target to have a less dumb looking haircut.

He wants the target to go away, to never come back, to stop making him doubt.  He wants the target to stay where the soldier can protect him, somewhere that won’t put that horrified expression on his irritatingly perfect face.

He wants to drop his gun and falls to his knees.

Instead he says, “Who the hell is Bucky?”

And the mission falls apart around him. (Maybe it was always supposed to.)  His handler slaps his face and then takes away his doubt, takes the memory of the man on the bridge, takes everything, with rubber between his teeth and electric shocks lighting up his every nerve.

* * *

 

The bank vault is nearly empty.  This is not the extraction point.  He was never supposed to come back here.  

(He was never supposed to survive Hydra’s glorious rise.)

There are three agents huddled together, watching footage of the helicarriers falling on a small television in an office down the hall from the chair.  They are young scientists, panicking over what they see on screen.

The one who last put the bit in his mouth dies first.  A second goes before the third can scream.

The final one lives long enough to stitch up a deep gash on his side that he can’t get a good angle on himself.  He holds a gun to her head and she also removes the tracker from his shoulder and another from his lower back. They both get crushed in his metal hand.

It’s good work, even with her hands shaking.  

He doesn’t want to kill her.

It makes him remember wanting again, and remember when he first remembered wanting, just a day ago.

He doesn’t want to kill her, even though she’ll have valuable intel on him to pass on to her masters when the chaos settles and someone decides to come looking for him. Killing her is the smart thing, the strategic thing, the thing he’s been taught to do over and over.  

“You should quit your job,” he tells her.

Sobbing, she nods at him.  “I will!  I quit. I promise. I promise.  I’m _so_ sorry. Please, don’t, don’t, don’t--”

He doesn’t want to kill her, so he smacks her in the temple with the butt of his P220 with only enough force to knock her out and goes about his business.

He digs the trackers out of his metal arm and chest, then pulls on a bulletproof vest under a hooded sweatshirt and jacket he pilfers from a locker.  He stuffs a backpack full of weapons, and gets out.  And all in under twenty minutes.

He doesn’t let himself think about the man he pulled out of the water, the man on the bridge, Captain _fucking_ America, until he’s tucked away in attic of an empty condo.  It’s right there, on the edge of his mind, a memory, a connection, or at least a name.  He thinks harder.

Thinking does not go well.

The resulting headache is so severe, he immediately blacks out.

* * *

 

Still, he can’t resist the temptation of thinking when he wakes, half a day later.  He wants to know more.  He wants back what they wiped, and wiped, and wiped.

Even if it hurts.

* * *

 

Memory comes in strange drips and sudden bursts, when he closes his eyes.  

He lets himself sleep for exactly an hour and when he wakes again he remembers Brooklyn and an apartment and two small beds pushed together to make one big bed.

He remembers a lump, buried under a pile of blankets, a little blond head sticking out where it rested on a thin pillow.

Chasing down memories of that blond lump sears his skull, but this time he doesn’t pass out.

He does, however, throw up.

Pushing and pushing, trying to figure out why Captain America said _Bucky_ : that also makes him throw up.

He does a lot of throwing up for a fella who hasn’t eaten anything other than grey nutrient shakes for half a goddamn century.

* * *

 

It takes him five days to it figure out.  

The pushing is what kills him.  He’ll have a blip, an incomplete memory, the flash of a girl’s smile or his mother’s name - _Winnie_ \- or a vision of a sketchbook filled with a young version of the face the soldier wears.  A younger version of _his_ face.

If he lets it be, lets the memory sit, it’s just a nudge at his temple, a headache so minimal it barely even registers as pain when compared to every torture this body’s endured.  But when he goes digging, when he struggles to find out _more_ , that’s when his head hurts so bad he can’t breathe, can’t see, can’t think.

There is an advertisement on a bus stop near the condo where he’s camped out, for a Captain America exhibit at the museum.  The man on the bridge - Captain America - there’s more lurking in his head about him, too, but he _can’t fucking access it._

He could learn more about Captain America in that exhibit, but visiting it might be pushing.  He might end up keeled over and clutching his head right there in the middle of Smithsonian, surrounded by tourists and Captain America fans.

Or it could bring him more fragments, enough puzzle pieces of memory to put together something, a history, an identity, the story of why Captain America is important, _anything at all_ , without passing out or throwing up.  

He drinks a grey nutrition shake and thinks too hard about how the captain said _Bucky_ , and the near-memory of that same voice saying that same name, over and over and over.  The resulting headache leaves him blind, leaves him vulnerable.

Best not to risk the museum.

* * *

 

The memories of doling out death come back quicker, smoother.  His masters were less interested in wiping all the missions, only took those from him because it was necessary to keep him from remembering anything else, too.

The faces of his victims are right there, a gruesome, ghastly parade of ghosts, and so are the details of exactly how he killed them; bones snapping under his hands, the gurgle of a slit throat, and endless pleas for mercy. The deep satisfaction of a perfectly calculated angle on a 1000-meter shot.

He has no memories of why his masters needed them dead.  They never told why, and he did it just because they told him.

He does not chase those memories.

* * *

 

The tiny, blond lump in the bed, his name is Steve Rogers.  It comes back to him while he sleeps.  He closes his eyes thinking about the lump (but not thinking too hard) and he wakes up with a name, like he’d never lost it.

Steven Grant Rogers.

He was important, once.  The soldier can’t figure out why.

* * *

 

On the twelfth day without Hydra, he remembers a girl.

Thinking about her is much easier than thinking about the lump or Captain America, less dangerous, less overwhelming, _less fucking painful_.

The girl comes back to him without even the assistance of sleep.  Her face just drifts back into his mind, red lips, dark eyes, big smile.  In his memory – useless, patchy fucking thing that it is – her Yiddish leaks into her accent when she’s upset or excited.

He feels like the girl’s connect to Captain America.  In his gut, he thinks she knew Captain America.  The lump - _Steven Grant Rogers_ \- might’ve known Captain America, too.

In his gut, he thinks the girl belongs in the museum, and the lump, too.

It’s a calculated risk but he visits the exhibit.

He visits the exhibit, and learns that Captain America is Steve Rogers. Captain America is also the lump, thanks to a wacky science experiment and some super soldier serum.

He visits the exhibit, and learns that Captain America is the lump is Steve Rogers, and his whole universe shifts around his ears again, just like it did on that bridge with the name _Bucky_.

He sits on a bench for a full thirty minutes, thinking of nothing but dragging deep breaths into his lungs, and pushing slow breaths out, before the nausea passes. He does not chase all the memories.

And then, only a few minutes after finally standing up from the bench, he sees his own face connected to a name. _James Buchanan Barnes._  Bucky to his friends.  His mother accidentally named him after the worst president in US history.

He’s back on the bench, breathing deep and desperately trying to not _fucking_ _think about it_ when a voice comes on over the loudspeaker, informing them that the museum is scheduled to close in ten minutes.

It’s the girl that gets him up, gets him moving through the exhibit, looking for a familiar name or a picture of the face in his memory.  Red lips, dark eyes, big smile, Yiddish.

He scours the exhibit, but finds not a goddamn thing.

She does not exist in the museum, the exhibit proving to be an incomplete record of Steve Rogers’ life, of James Buchanan Barnes’ life. There is a section with the heading _Before the War_ , but the girl’s face is missing from it and he is absolutely fucking positive she belongs right here.

The incomplete intel here is _infuriating_.  

But at least he doesn’t throw up.

* * *

 

Sleep can bring more memories, but it doesn’t give him the girl’s name. He wakes up, drinks a shake, and then pushes his mind for her name so hard that he’s passing out from the pain, again.  He’s only out for three hours this time.  

It’s a big improvement.

* * *

 

He tries a library next.  Libraries, he decides, are a goddamn disappointment.

Like her face did not appear in the Smithsonian, the books are also lacking.  All the ones he plows through are focused on politics and history, things that happened after 1943, but the girl in his memory has a pre-war face.  She's _before_ , tangled up with the lump, with his blond bangs, always being pushed to the side and scrawny limbs, flailed at awkward angles.

He scans the glossaries of a dozen books, hoping his mind will get stuck on a familiar name.

Steve Rogers - the lump who turned into the Captain - is impossible to pick apart in his head, but the girl feels more manageable.  She might even still be around, if only he could find her name.  If only libraries weren’t such a goddamn disappointment.

And then one book, an old one, written in 1948, has a name and a page number in the index: Rachel Rosenbaum, page 239.  He flips through the thick, musty pages, and reads.

_Although Steve Rogers had no living family when he took that fateful plunge into the Arctic, he was survived by his beneficiary, one Rachel Rosenbaum of Brooklyn.  As for her relationship to the Captain, the official paperwork, as filled out by the Captain himself, described her as his fiancé.  The existence of a fiancé back home, given the Captain's very public affair with Miss Carter, certainly called into question the morality of Captain America.  Often touted as a beacon faithfulness, purity, and the glory of the American Dream, consorting publicly with Miss Carter while Miss Rosenbaum (a Jew) was left at home to read about the relationship in the press,_ _greatly_ _diminishes the Captain's position as a heroic symbol.  Miss Rosenbaum refused to offer comment for this work, indicating that she too has not forgiven the Captain for his indiscretion.  Miss Carter remained silent on this matter._

"It's _Agent_ Carter," he tells the book, hands digging into it spine.  It creaks under his fingers.

Again, he can’t fathom how he knows these things, but he does.  He _knows_ this like he knows how to breathe.  It’s _Agent_ Carter.  No freaky super solider serum was able to change the lump’s hands and voice because they were just the same on the bridge.  A girl named Rachel Rosenbaum is missing from the _Life Before the War_ section of the Smithsonian exhibit.

_Rachel_.  The rightness of it reverberates in his head.   _Rachel, Rachel, Rachel._

If the Smithsonian and The Worst Book Ever Fucking Written tell him anything, it’s that his patchwork memory is somehow more reliable than the public record.

He rips the book to shreds, hiding bits and pieces of it throughout the stacks, and goes to find a computer.

The internet takes Rachel Rosenbaum and turns her into Rachel Barnes (1923 - present).   _World-renowned designer.  Fashion icon.  LGBT Rights Activist._

Rachel Barnes has the same face as the girl in his memories, painted red lips with a slight smirk peeking out at the corner of her mouth. Mischievous eyes and a stubborn chin, raised high and defiant.  Like Steve.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he fights off a headache and refuses to think about the man on the goddamn bridge.  Rachel first.  The man on the bridge… someday.

There’s so much information on Rachel Barnes that he goes cross-eyed with it.  The light from the screen makes his eyes water. There’s sweat on his forehead.  He hasn’t slept for more than an hour here or there since they last took him out of cyro (all the passing out hardly counts as rest). His human hand’s shaking, reminding him that nearly everything he's tried to eat since it all fell apart – his mission, his handlers, his programming – has come back up.

He needs maintenance.  He needs _care_.  He needs answers from a more reliable source than The Worst Book Ever Fucking Written and less overwhelming than Google.

The internet takes Rachel Rosenbaum/Barnes and leads him to a website for The Barnes House: A Shelter for LGBT youth.  A safe space.  And the place has an address.

In Brooklyn.

* * *

 

He meanders north, taking extra precautions to ensure he isn’t being followed. He’s not.  The Winter Solider is not a priority, not when Hydra had an unprecedented number of heads cut off in one afternoon just a couple of weeks ago.

On the fourteenth day without Hydra, he wakes up from an hour of sleep, feeling like a _Bucky_.  He tries it out in his head.   _I am Bucky.  My mother accidentally named me after the worst president in US history.  James Buchanan Barnes.  But really, call me Bucky._

He doesn’t overthink it.  Now is not the time for passing out or throwing up.  He’s got to get to Brooklyn.

Bucky raids two recently abandoned Hydra bases on his way.  He collects weapons and the nutrient shakes. Those are staying down better than anything else.  They taste like chalk.

He rummages through files and finds none about himself, but that’s for the best. Given the fragile mess that is currently his brain, it’s been not to know the details of how and where he was stored and maintained.

He ends up with a large top load duffle along with his backpack, stuffed full of knives, new tac gear, and civilian clothes.  The tiny Beretta he unearths is the perfect size for the front pocket of his hooded sweatshirt.

The third safe house is not as abandoned.  He kills eight people in under a minute and then throws up in the fucking bushes.  

He does not like killing people.  And ain’t that something.  Bucky does not like killing people.  Bucky actively dislikes killing people.  In the future, he’ll avoid it as best he can.  

Still, inside he finds a Nano mask to change his face and a synthetic skin sleeve to cover his arm.

He dons both immediately and resolves to make no stops till New York.

* * *

 

By the time he makes it to Brooklyn, hazy memories have solidified into details, dates and names, conversations and facts, how it felt to be touched gently, how it felt to have a family.

He remembers this street and all the nights spent in the building that was not The Barnes House: A Shelter for LGBT Youth back then.  It was a shelter of sorts in his time too, but mostly it was a bar, one of the only places where he was allowed to be in love with his best friend.

Fuck, he thought the pain in his head would really kill him that time. After he remembered that detail and then allowed himself to think about it too hard.  He had curled up in a shed, next to a toolbox and three bicycles with five flat tires, and weathered the pain. There was nothing in his stomach to throw up, but he heaved and heaved anyway.

More than any goddamn thing, he wants to just sit down and think it out. He almost remembers being in love, but these memories are so far removed from everything he's experienced in the last seventy years that it’ll take some serious consideration to puzzle it all out. It’s another fact about the person he used to be - James Buchanan Barnes, born in 1917, from Brooklyn, Dodgers fan, in love with Steve Rogers - while the emotions, how it actually felt, remain a mystery. He can feel the answers, right there on the edge of his mind, and he wants to chase the memory down harder than he’s chased down a single memory so far.  Thinking any more intensely than he searched for Rachel’s name might actually kill him.

Wouldn’t it be a goddamn pity if thinking about Steve Rogers popped something in his head and killed him dead before he even made it to Rachel Rosenbaum/Barnes and her shelter?

But now that he’s back in Brooklyn, in a neighborhood that he still can navigate easily, and he doesn’t know how to reach out and talk to her.

Lurking in the shadows across the street, he watches someone who's not Rachel Rosenbaum/Barnes speak to a grubby teenager on the front steps of the old building that was once a bar.  She’s young, mid thirties maybe, and her hair is dark brown, nearly the same shade as her skin.  If this were decades ago, he’d assume that she’s Puerto Rican.  There were a lot of Puerto Ricans around here, decades ago.  

What a fucking nonsensical thing to remember, but at least it doesn’t make him throw up.

The woman opens the door wide and speaks too softly for his enhanced hearing to pick up on, but eventually the teenager nods and walks through the door.  The woman who is not Rachel Rosenbaum/Barnes pulls the door closed behind her and throws the lock.

Knocking on that closed door is a terrible option, so he climbs the fire escape on the building across the street from The Barnes House: A Shelter for LGBT Youth, and settles on the roof for surveillance.

* * *

 

The next morning, Rachel Rosenbaum/Barnes takes her coffee on the balcony of the fifth floor apartment, in the next door building that’s now connected to Sully’s old bar.  She sets the mug down on the table, hooks her cane over the edge, and then lowers herself into a chair, moving like her whole body aches.  She spreads out a paper in front of her, using what appears to be a magnifying glass to read the small print.

He will scale the building, access the roof, and then drop down on the balcony.  He will ask Rachel Rosenbaum/Barnes if this can be a shelter for him, too, and he will request soup.  Matzo ball soup.  He can almost taste it on his tongue, the memory is so strong.  It makes his stomach lurch.

He will do all these things, as soon as he can coax his stubborn limbs into moving.  They are malfunctioning on him for no goddamn reason. His current state of frozenness appears to be psychosomatic.

In the end his delay works in his favor.  At 9:00 AM, the elevator brings the same woman he saw yesterday to the fifth floor.  Rachel Rosenbaum/Barnes turns to smile at her when she steps onto the balcony, but she does not get up.  The two converse briefly, before the woman goes back inside.  She then cleans and cooks, delivering Rachel Rosenbaum/Barnes breakfast at 9:30 AM exactly.  There are pills on the tray.  Rachel Rosenbaum/Barnes takes all three after she eats.  

After breakfast, both women get on the elevator together and eventually exit the building through the back door.  There are two teenagers with them, and he scrambles down to follow when it becomes clear that the four of them will be going somewhere on foot.  

They've gotten less than a block by the time he catches up, taking care to follow unobtrusively.  The Nano mask itches, but changing his face is well worth it.  He hides his hand in his pocket.

Rachel Rosenbaum/Barnes moves slowly.  One of the teenagers – a skinny boy with black hair, thirteen years old, low threat level – takes her arm and she leans on him instead of her cane.  Another drags along a wheelchair.

They spend the afternoon at a familiar park that he's lost the name of. Rachel Rosenbaum/Barnes sits on a bench with the other woman.  The teenagers throw around a baseball and wander along the waterfront before returning to the bench.  

All four make their way back when the sun gets unbearably hot, the teenagers taking turns pushing Rachel Rosenbaum/Barnes in the wheelchair.

Rachel Rosenbaum/Barnes returns to the fifth floor alone.  He could either go back to the roof of the building across the street to continue his surveillance or follow her.

Following her is a truly terrifying prospect, but Bucky wants someone to say his name, the way he hears it in his head, the way the captain said it on the helicarrier.  

And it can’t be Steve Rogers, not when simply _thinking_ about him hurts so goddamn much.

So it’s gotta be Rachel Rosenbaum/Barnes.

Bucky takes off the mask.  The face he wears is his own.

She's sitting in a rocking chair in the living room when he drops silently onto the balcony.  In her lap she's got yarn and knitting needles.  

His mind conjures another image, of Rachel unwrapping yarn for Chanukah that year they could afford to give it to her. She had squealed with joy, pulled them both into a tight hug, and then two weeks later, the lump had a new scarf.  "This yarn was a gift, Rach," said Steve, begrudgingly taking the scarf.  "You weren't supposed to turn around and give it back to me!"  Rachel had patted Steve's cheek and wrapped the scarf a little tighter around his neck.

The memory has his face pulling up into a smile but he doesn’t go searching for more of it.  He reaches up to feel his cheeks with his right hand, not used to his mouth moving in such a way.  These muscles creak with disuse.

He watches Rachel Rosenbaum/Barnes knit and does not know what to do next.  

On the missions given to him, he’d either break in quietly or smash through a window but this is his own mission.  Finding Rachel Rosenbaum/Barnes is the second choice he's made in seventy years, after pulling the Captain from the water, and neither option for entering the apartment seems right.

In the end he knocks on the door, even though the thing’s unlocked and he could just stroll right in.  No break in required.  Knocking is just the polite thing to do.

It takes Rachel Rosenbaum/Barnes a long time to stand and shuffle towards the back door.  She stops abruptly, dropping her cane when she sees him.  Her eyes are wide, her mouth hangs open, but this is not fear that has her staring.  

He is well acquainted with fear.  This is shock.

He could not say why, but he gives in to the urge to lift his non-weaponized hand to wave.  He even attempts a small smile.

It's enough to startle Rachel Rosenbaum/Barnes into action and she shuffles closer, leaving the cane abandoned on the floor where she dropped it.  She does not hesitate to slide the door open for him.

"Bucky?" she whispers and something in his chest unspools.  The name makes breathing easier, makes his hand tremble.

"Why are you called Rachel Barnes on the internet?" he blurts out.  

That was not what he intended to say.  Actually, he’s got no goddamn clue what he intended to say. He didn’t plan this far ahead.  That was a mistake.

Rachel barks out a laugh.  "At first, I was pretending to be Beck’s cousin. And then I used that name for work.  You know, back in 1950 there were still people who didn't want a Jew designing their clothes?"

He shakes his head and Rachel's smile falters a little.

"I married your sister," she says.  "That’s the reason I kept it.  I always felt so married to your sister, even before it was legal.  Beck and I got hitched the moment we could, in Massachusetts."

He nods.  "She's gone, isn't she?  Just like everyone else."

Once he had a mother who accidentally named him after the worst president ever and a sister who scowled a lot and read everything she could get her hands on.  He had a father who came back from a war quiet and a blond lump in his bed every night.

Bucky will not chase the memories.  He just breathes and watches Rachel Barnes.  She’s got tears in her eyes.

"Yeah," she replies. "Beck’s been gone for about a year now."

"A year ago I was in storage, in cryo," he says without thought.  "Or maybe I was assassinating a diplomat in Ukraine.  I'm not sure.  Depends on the month."

Rachel Barnes' sharp little intake of breath and her increased heart rate indicate that this was not the right thing to say.  Before, she was shocked.  This is fear now and he takes a step back, gives her space, hunches his shoulders and tries to appear smaller.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

Rachel opens her mouth and he braces himself, ready to flee when she tells him to leave or calls the police.  Instead she says, "Would you like to come in and stay for dinner?"

Cocking his head to the side, he studies her, old and infirm and still the girl in his memories, with red lips and big eyes.  She married his sister and built somewhere safe for kids to go, kids like they were once kids. Queer kids.  

Her face is missing from the Smithsonian but not from his memory.  She is safe.

He is not safe.  Now that he's got assassinations on the brain, all he can see is blood and death.  He can't go into Rachel Barnes' safe home, bringing blood and death with him.

Bucky shakes his head and takes another step back. Rachel shuffles forward, reaching out but not touching him.

"Hey, now," she says.  Her voice is raspier than in his memories, but it’s undeniably hers.  The Yiddish is still there, like his bubbe. "Not everyone is gone. I'm here.  You're here, _somehow_.  And Steve, too.  Have you seen Steve?"

He braces himself to that familiar head-splitting pain, but it’s not so bad, just a little throbbing around his temple.  Uncomfortable, but far from unbearable.  Really, it’s a goddamn vacation compared to everything else.

Swallowing against the lump in his throat is difficult.  So is nodding his reply.  His cheeks burn red hot and he can't look at Rachel Barnes.  He stares down at his dirty boots for a long time before he identifies this emotion.

Guilt.   _Shame_.

Oh, he's seen Steve all right.  He bashed his face in with a metal fist and pumped him full of bullets.  He was a whisper away from leaving him in the river to drown.  He's seen Steve and he's so fucking ashamed.

"Bucky," Rachel says.  She's so soft and so gentle, that he actually manages to look at her again.  Her eyes are sad, her expression earnest. "It’s so good to see you.  I missed you so much.  Please come in.  Will you have dinner with me?"

She's pleading with him, _begging_.  She doesn't want him to disappear into this familiar city, the one superimposed over the map in his memory. She doesn't even want him to stay on her balcony.  She's asking a question, giving him a choice even as she makes her own desire clear.

She's asking a question, not giving a command, so Bucky replies with a question of his own.

"Can we have soup?"

* * *

 

The answer is yes, but Rachel Barnes is too tired and her arthritic hands are worn out from the knitting, so Bucky will have to do most of the work.  She gently suggests he shower first and Bucky flinches, remembers freezing pinpricks on his skin and too much pressure.

"I don't like to be cold," he says.

"Well, crank that thing hot as it’ll go.  It's a good shower.  A _modern_ shower.  Nothing like what we grew up with."

Bucky wants to chase that memory, to figure out what the showers they grew up with were like, but Rachel would probably be a bit alarmed if he collapsed, clutching his head and moaning out his pain.

He leaves the near-memories of old showers in the past, and regards this modern one warily.

Rachel rummages through a dresser, pulling out soft sweat pants and an even softer t-shirt.  She offers no explanation on why she has clothes that will probably fit him, but Bucky can guess who they belong to.

"We can throw what you're wearing now in the wash,” she says.  “Towels are under the sink.  You take as long as you need and then we'll get started on dinner."

Bucky nods, turning away and moving towards the shower.  He pauses before entering the bathroom.

"You can’t tell him," Bucky says.

"Why not?" Rachel asks.  She might be old, her face lined with wrinkles for every year she's lived, but she's still sharp.  She doesn't have to ask _tell what to who?_

"Have you seen him?" Bucky asks, pressing his luck.  The Potomac memories seem safe enough for now.  He can discuss them with no pain.

Well, no pain in his head anyway.  His heart is another goddamn matter entirely.

"Yes," says Rachel.  "Less, since he moved to DC.  But I've seen him plenty.  He didn't mention that he'd seen you."

"He wouldn't," Bucky says, flexing his metal fingers.

"Oh." Rachel stares at the hand like she's just now noticing it's a weapon. " _Oh_.  That was you, wasn't it?  Fighting him in DC?  On that highway and then on that flying monstrosity before it crashed with the others."

The shame is back, and the guilt.  Bucky can't look at her, but he nods.  

“Did you choose to fight him?  On your own, did you make that choice?”

Bucky laughs and then bites back the sound when it comes out painfully hysterical.  “I haven’t chosen anything on my own in years, Rach.”

Except to pull Steve from the water.  Except to come here.

“I see,” she whispers but Bucky very much doubts that she does see.  How could she see?  How could he explain?  It’s all beyond even the worst nightmares of someone like Rachel, who lived a nice, long life. “Well, you’re here now.  Was that a choice?”

Bucky stares and stares at his feet.  “I can go. I hurt him and I should go."

"No!" Rachel says.  Her panic startles him, leaves him confused.  "Please don't leave.  Please.  Just shower and we'll make matzo ball soup.  Please sleep here tonight, too, and maybe between all that we can talk a little? Just a little?"

Bucky stares at Rachel for a long moment.  Her face is familiar, even aged as it is.  She is safe.

"Okay," he agrees.

* * *

 

Rachel makes her matzo meal from scratch.  She keeps a jar in the cupboard, and Bucky's just gotta add eggs and water to once the broth is going, rolling the balls following Rachel's instructions for size and shape. They cheat on the broth as Rachel apparently stopped boiling up her own stock years ago.  He doesn't use his metal hand, except to slice vegetables.

It’s nice, holding a knife for reasons other than stabbing.

The matzo balls cook up and expand in the soup.  He stares down as they grow, remembering a different kitchen and a beat up cast iron pot. The smell is the same and Bucky breathes deep.  He does not chase the memory.

Well, it’s actually a lot of separate memories.  They ate a lot of goddamn soup.

He starts with only the broth, a few bits of soft onion and carrot and celery.  Rachel raises an eyebrow at his bowl but says nothing as she blows on a spoonful.  The broth stays down for half an hour, so he has another bowl, adding a matzo ball this time.  That works out, too, and Bucky works his way through the rest of the pot, eating in increments.

Matzo ball soup is far superior to those fucking nutrient shakes.  They’re all getting dumped in the trash, as soon as he’s done eating.

When he's finished, Bucky leans back in his chair, warm and full for the first time in memory.  He searches for a word to match the feeling.

_Content_.  He settles on content and the memory of feeling this way in the past is an echo.  He lets it sit.

"Okay," Rachel says.  Her voice is croaky and Bucky's kept her up too late, later than she went to sleep last night.  "Now it’s time to find a compromise."

"Compromise," he repeats.  He knows this word, understands its dictionary definition, but has no context for what it actually means.

"You don't want me to tell Steve you’re here," she says.  The name makes Bucky flinch, but Rachel keeps talking.  "I want to tell Steve you’re here, because I’m positive that he's out there looking for you as we speak, worrying himself sick."  

Bucky filches again.  Steve shouldn't be _sick_.  Every instinct he's got, buried deep under layers of programming and muscle memory and every lesson he ever learned at the hands of every handler that taught him that the only way to stop hurting was to comply, does not want Steve to be _sick_.  

"We both want you to stay here tonight," she says.  "We both want you to stay here indefinitely?" she asks.

Bucky stares at the tabletop as he considers, before nodding.  This is a good place.  Rachel is safe.  Her food stays in his stomach, makes him warm and full and content.  He would very much like to stay here indefinitely.

"Okay," Rachel says.  "So we mostly want the same thing.  Here's my proposal for a compromise.  And if you don't like it, we'll come up with something that works for you, too.  We’ll _negotiate_."

Another foreign concept, but Bucky nods anyway and listens.

"I'm gonna call Steve," Rachel says and Bucky panics, rearing back and almost toppling out of his chair.  

He cannot see Steve.  He very recently almost _killed_ Steve, hit him and hit him and hit him.  In his face, right in his perfect, treasured, sacred face.  

He’ll see Steve and he’ll give into the temptation to chase down all those memories.  It’ll be impossible to resist pushing, digging around in his own head even if the pain kills him.  Steve’s important and Bucky hasn’t quite figured out _why_ yet, but he can’t see him or he’ll really do something stupid.

On top of the fear that seeing Steve will have him destroying what’s left of his own head as he digs around for memories, there’s still the possibility that it will trigger something in him again.  He could complete the last mission Hydra gave him, and without anyone to put him in the chair, he’ll become himself again later, surrounded by blood, Steve dead and maybe Rachel, too.

On top of _that_ , he’s not ready.  He can’t bear to see him, not while he’s still spread so thin and vulnerable.  Just the few memories of Steve, fragmented and dusty as they are, overwhelm him.  Everything he remembers about Steve Rogers is nothing compared to the sheer breadth and scope of what he can’t remember about the life they had together and how much Bucky felt for him.  It is enough to blow him over and he can’t yet.  He just _can’t_.

Steve isn’t supposed to see Bucky when he’s hurting this much.  He’s supposed to wait until Steve’s back is turned.  Then he can grimace and flinch and hurt, without the risk of his pain spilling over onto Steve, too.

“Hold your horses,” Rachel says, palms up.  The command in her voice is the only thing that keeps him in the chair and not fleeing out the window. “I’ve gotta call Steve,” she says again.  “But I'll make him promise to come nowhere near here, alright?  You won’t have to see him yet, but he’ll be so relieved to know that you’re safe.”

“You think Steve’s worried?” Bucky whispers, rocking a little in his seat.  That’s unacceptable.  Even more unacceptable than seeing Steve.

“I do,” Rachel says, nodding.

“And he’ll be less worried, if he knows I’m here?”

“He will.”

“And you’ll be able to get him to stay away?”

All smirking and confident, Rachel looks decades younger.  “Sure will.”

Bucky’s silent for a very long time.  Rachel does not press him to answer before he can remember how to make a decision for himself.

Eventually, he says, “Okay.”

* * *

 

Rachel turns on the speaker, setting her cellphone on the tabletop as it dials.  After two rings, Bucky decides that he needs to be under the table for this conversation so he crawls down on the floor, crouching close to Rachel’s feet.  Rachel doesn’t even flinch.

The phone rings twice more.

"Rachel?" says Steve.

His voice echoes in Bucky’s head, a memory of a memory.  Like funhouse mirrors, it reverberates around and multiplies.  In his head, Steve’s said Rachel’s name so many times it makes Bucky dizzy.

Bucky breathes deep and focuses on this conversation and nothing else. No memories, just this moment. He does not dig deeper.  He does not push.   _He will not chase the memory._

"You alright?” Steve presses on, before Rachel can reply.  “What's going on?"

"Where are you right now?" Rachel asks.  She's speaking slowly and carefully, like she's still figuring out a problem.

Bucky’s the problem.  Getting Steve to agree not to come rushing back here, guns blazing, heroic music playing in the background, American flag rippling majestically behind him, ready to save the goddamn day – that’s the problem.

_Who’s strong and brave, here to save the American Way? Who vows to fight like a man for what’s right, night and day?_

Bucky blinks, not sure where this song’s from, although he is pretty certain he sorta hates Captain America all on his own, not just from his most recent mission directives.

"You know I can't tell you that," Steve says.

"Yes, yes, I know.  Your little quest is a secret one and you can’t tell me anything about it, blah, blah, blah.”

Bucky almost laughs. It feels as strange as smiling.

“We tend to call them missions, Rach,” says Steve.  He sounds like he’s clenching his jaw and rolling his eyes.

“I don't need to know where you are _specifically_ ," Rachel replies. "Just, how far are you from Brooklyn?"

The sound that comes out of the speakerphone might be a laugh. And it might be a sob.  It makes Bucky’s chest ache.

"Pretty far from Brooklyn."

"Okay."  Rachel takes a deep breath.  "When I tell you this, you need to promise to stay out of Brooklyn."

"What? No.  Rachel, why?"

There’s a noise, rustling, like Steve’s standing up and ready to sprint back to Brooklyn.  Under the table, Bucky rolls his eyes.

"Steve,” Rachel says.  She takes a deep breath.  “He's here."

Nothing but silence on the other end of the phone.  Bucky fists his hands in his lap to prevent himself from punching through Rachel’s nice tile floor with his metal hand.

“Who?” Steve’s voice is a ragged whisper.  Bucky works even harder to not destroy the floor.

“What, you think I was born yesterday?  I know who you fought on that flying barge thing over the river.   _Bucky_!  I’m talking about James Buchanan Barnes.  Thanks for telling me he’s still alive and kicking, by the way.  We just had matzo ball soup for dinner and now he’s hiding under the table.”

Very gently, Bucky pokes Rachel in the leg. That was uncalled for, telling Steve that he currently feels better sitting at Rachel’s feet than sitting in a chair. She giggles a little and nudges at him playfully.

"Okay,” says Steve, sounding like he’s very much not okay.  “Okay.  I’ll get on a plane.  But to get to a plane I guess we’ll need to get in the car first.  We’re kinda in the middle of nowhere. There’s like ten people in this fucking town.  Sam!  Wake up!  Where’re the keys?"

Bucky gently pokes Rachel in the leg again, a silent _I told you so_ even though Bucky never actually told her so, only thought that once Steve knew he was here, he’d come running.  Once Rachel admits she was wrong about this whole goddamn compromise he’ll crawl out the window and flee into the night.  He’ll work his way to Romania.  He’ll get lost in Bucharest.

Also, who is this _Sam_?

"Steven Grant Rogers!" Rachel yells, making Bucky jump.  "Stop right this minute and listen to me."

It gets Steve to shut up.  Bucky’s impressed.

Steve breathes deep.  "Okay.  He's there?  With you?  At the apartment?"

"Showed up on the balcony this afternoon," Rachel says.  She suddenly sounds all of her ninety or so years, tired and thin.

Steve swallows.  "And is he..."

"He’s fine," Rachel replies.  She bends to look under the table, frowning at him.  Bucky’s bites his lip and looks away, looks back and nods, giving her permission to tell Steve whatever she wants.  “Well, he’s a bit of a mess.”

Bucky snorts.  What an understatement.

“He didn’t…” Steve gulps for air.  “He’s been… They hurt him and he didn’t remember, Rach.  They made him forget _everything_ and they fucking _used_ him.  Didn’t know me or himself, but then he saved me.  He pulled me out of the river.”

Bucky shivers and does not say, _“Pulled you out only after I put you there, shot you three times and broke your cheekbone and let you fall.”_

Rachel straightens back up.  Under the table she reaches out towards Bucky, offering a hand.  With great caution, he takes it and laces their fingers together.

“Well, I don’t know what all he remembers,” she says, squeezing his hand.  “But he knows his name, knows who I am, knows he wanted matzo ball soup.”

"He always loved that soup," Steve says.  Through the speaker, he sniffles.  "That's good right?  That he found you.  That he came to you."

"It is," she agrees, sounding weary again.  "And he wants to stay here for awhile, but he has a condition and you're not going to like it."

" _What_?"

Steve’s sounds so broken and so desperate.  Bucky closes his eyes.

"At first, he didn't want me to tell you he was here at all,” Rachel continues.  “He was very insistent on it, before the soup, but after he was warm and full, he was a bit more open to compromise."

" _Compromise_?" Steve asks, stunned.

"He didn't want me to tell you at all, but I said no, absolutely not.  Told him you were off running yourself ragged, surely taking way too many risks, trying to find him.  Because that’s what you’re doing, right?  Your secret quest you wouldn’t tell them about?”

“It’s a _mission_ , Rachel.”

“And,” Rachel says like Steve didn’t speak, “when I told him that you were so worried, it would be cruel not to tell you and I wouldn't do it.  He agreed to let me call.”

"Okay, good.” Steve huffs out a breath.  “Thanks, Rach.  So what's the condition?"

"Steve, bubbeleh, he needs some time.  You can’t come home right now."

They all sit there in silence for a while.  Bucky hiding under the table, pressed up against Rachel’s leg, Rachel holding his hand, Steve somewhere far from Brooklyn, breathing like he’s a hundred pound asthmatic in 1939.

It’s hard work, not chasing down that memory.  It’s hard work, just accepting that he knows these things without examining how or why or when or who.

That familiar, terrible breathing is almost enough to make Bucky change his mind about staying away from Steve.

But then Steve sniffles and says, “Okay.”

* * *

 

**1935**

A month and a half after Sarah Rogers starts coughing up blood, Steve shows up on the doorstep of the Barnes family brownstone.  He doesn’t come right in like he usually would.  He doesn’t even knock.  Bucky only finds him out there because he opens the front door to step out of it, jumping a little in surprise as he pulls his coat on.

“I thought we were meeting at the theater,” he says, frowning down at his watch.  “And not for another half hour. Did I get the time wrong?”

Steve stays silent and Bucky’s not paying enough attention to figure out that something’s wrong until he pulls the door shut behind him, steps forward, and Steve still doesn’t move.  He’s frozen there, expression far away.  

In front of him, he holds a telegram.  The paper rustles in Steve’s shaking hands.

Bucky swallows.  “Steve?” he whispers.

Steve startles, glancing around like he’s not sure how he got here.  Then he stares up at Bucky, lip quivering and eyes wide.

“Steve?” he says again, heart racing, stomach suddenly full of stones.

Steve just clenches his jaw, shakes his head, and presses the telegram into Bucky’s chest.  He doesn’t even need to read it, to know what it says.  Still, through the haze of his shock he’s having a hard time believing that Sarah’s really gone, so he forces himself to read the words on the page.

He wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his coat, and then reads it again.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Bucky whispers.  He stares at Steve, who’s staring at the ground, and reaches out a hand, aiming for his shoulder.

“Don’t.”  Steve takes a step back, nearly losing his balance on the top step.  He catches himself on the railing and then digs the heels of his hands into his eyes.  “Don’t,” he says again.  And it’s a demand, a _command_.

Bucky takes a deep breath.  If Steve’s holding it together, then Bucky can too.  He can keep from sobbing all over the front stoop.

“Come in,” he says, opening the front door and hustling Steve inside.  He follows, but gives Bucky a wide berth, like he can’t bear to be touched.

They stand there in the foyer for a few long seconds, Steve still staring at his shoes, Bucky still staring at Steve with the goddamn telegram clutched in his fist.  

He’s got absolutely no idea what to do next, what with crying all over each other off the table, so he turns towards the hall, calling out for his mother.

It’s the only thing to do, in times like this.  Call out for his mother.

Winnie will know what to do next.  She’ll mourn her friend, but first she’ll grind her teeth together and tell them what to do next.

“ _Ma_!”

“Don’t you holler at me, boy!” his ma hollers at him from the kitchen. “Come talk to me using your inside voice!”

Bucky shuffles into the kitchen to find his mother kneading dough at the counter.  Beck’s beside her, looking morose as anything with her arms crossed over her chest.  She ain’t helping at all.  Ma’s got flour in her hair.

“What’s so important that you feel the need to scream at me in my own home?” she asks.

Bucky can’t manage the words.  He silently holds the telegram in front of her face, so she can see it without getting dough all over it, and Ma reads it only once, inhaling sharply and blinking back tears.  “Oh,” she murmurs.

Beck snatches it out of Bucky’s hands, seems to read it over and over again, her eyes flying across the page.

Ma closes her eyes, tilts her face up towards the ceiling, and murmurs a prayer under her breath.  When she looks at Bucky again, there’re no tears in her eyes.

“Where is he?”

“Foyer,” Bucky says.

“Bring him in.  Sit him down.  I’ll get the whiskey.” She turns away to wash her hands, and then glances over her shoulder at Beck, where she’s still staring at the telegram, sobs wracking her chest.

Bucky’s almost jealous.  He wants to cry with everything he’s got, but that’s not what Steve needs right now.  Instead he takes a deep breath and sets about following his mother’s instructions to get some whiskey in his best friend.

Except Steve’s made a liar out of him.  He’s definitely not in the foyer. He’s not anywhere.

* * *

 

Bucky crawls into bed and can’t sleep.  He cries himself dry into his pillow and resists the urge to go searching for Steve.  He already looked in all the usual places, only returning home when it got late enough for his parents to worry.

“You can look in the morning,” Ma said, hugging him tight.  “Maybe he just needs to grieve alone for tonight.”

Bucky doesn’t want to grieve alone, but it’s not his mother who spent years healing the sick in TB wards only to get it herself and die a month and a half later.  So he stays put until sunup, and then sets out, determined to track down his best friend.

Steve’s not at the rear tenement he shared with his mother, the fifth one in the last three years.  He's not in any of their favorite drinking spots or the art school or down by the water, where he likes to draw and look at the activity on the river, despite the smell.  

The Boyds haven't seen him, but they do give Bucky a couple pork chops to pass on when he does find Steve.

As the sun gets high in the sky, he checks Steve's place once more before giving up and heading home.  It's a walk, from Brooklyn Height to Park Slope.

Bucky prefers the old neighborhood, prefers a seat on the floor by Steve, reading while Steve sketches and Sarah cooks.

Except that ain’t gonna happen.  Not ever again.

When he gets home he's missed lunch by an hour.  His father is in the sitting room with a paper and a cigarette because it’s a Saturday and he does not work on the Sabbath.  His glasses are low on his nose, a single dark eyebrow raised when he gets a good look at Bucky.  

"Sorry, I missed lunch," Bucky says, taking off his cap and wringing it between his hands.

"You are forgiven.  And I think you'll want to get in the kitchen."

Finally, after a whole night worrying about him and half a day searching, he finds Steve.  He's seated at the kitchen table, across from Bucky's ma. Rebecca is huddled at his side, her arms laid flat on the tabletop and her head pillowed on them.  Not one of them notices Bucky, loitering in the entryway.

"Was there anything else?" asks Ma.  She taps a pencil on a piece of paper, where she's written down a list.

Steve shakes his head, his face stony and almost terrifyingly blank.

"I'll take care of everything," she says.  Her voice is soft and gentle.  In her grief, she's allowing herself to sound more Irish than she normally would.  "It’ll be a good service."

"I really should do something."

"What do you want to do?"

Steve shrugs.  "I dunno.  But she's my mother.  I should do something to help."

"She was my friend," Ma says.  "And unlike you, son, I actually want to put this together.  If you want a task, I'll give you one, but if you don't then you'll let me do this for my friend."

In his chair, Steve slumps over.  That's more terrifying than his emotionless expression, watching all the fight drain right out of Steve.  Steve, under normal circumstances, is all fight, and Bucky wants to cry all over again.  

Seeing his best friend defeated is almost as hard and knowing that Sarah Rogers is never going to hug him or scold him or squeeze his hand and exchange worried looks with him over Steve, as he sleeps off some sickness or another.

"Thanks, Winnie," Steve murmurs.

Beck lifts her head and sets a hand on Steve's shoulder.  Everyone stays still like that for a long moment, until Steve stands up abruptly, his chair legs scraping against the floor.  

"Thank you," he says again.  "I gotta go."

He flees from the kitchen, barely glancing at Bucky as he ducks past him, pulling on his jacket as he goes.

Bucky looks at his ma.  "Go," she says, nodding after Steve.  “And make sure you bring him back here, James.  I mean it.  That boy will not be left out in the cold, all on his own.”

He catches up half a block later.  Steve walking like he's got the devil on his heels, so fast he's already starting to wheeze.  Bucky falls into step at his side easily and has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from saying anything.  The litany of, “ _Slow down, are you okay, I miss your ma so much breathing hurts,”_ is all resting right there on his tongue but Bucky knows it won't help.

It would only get Steve defensive and angry or, even worse, defeated and sad.

"You got any money?" Steve asks when they’re halfway back to Steve's place.

"Sure," says Bucky, rummaging around in his pockets and emerging with a couple of bills, his pay for helping out Tateh at the garage last week. "How much do you need?  I can get more."

Steve huffs.  "Just get us a bottle, alright?"

"Yeah, okay."

Bucky lets their arms brush as they walk.  Steve doesn’t move away.

"And," says Steve, after they walk another block.  He cuts himself off and clears his throat. "And just because I'm an orphan now don't mean I gonna start taking your charity, Buck.  I'll pay for my half of the bottle."

"No, you won't," Bucky insists.  "You can just get the next one. And you're no orphan."

"Both my parents are dead."

That statement is so blunt and so brutal, it has Bucky flinching.  "You've got family, Steve.  You're not alone."

“Well, _apparently_ ," Steve snaps.  At his sides, his hands form fists. "Your ma's planning the whole damn funeral for me."

Bucky gets them a bottle.

* * *

 

Back at the tenement, Steve's got the curtains pulled tight over the window.  They’re dingy, an unappealing brown, and when the sun filters through them the room looks even more gloomy, like there are dust storms and thunder clouds outside instead of a perfectly lovely summer day.

Bucky sits next to Steve on the sofa and accepts a drink when Steve hands him a glass.

In the last 24 hours, Steve's been busy.  All the little touches that made this place the Rogers' home and not just another dumpy, overcrowded, poorly ventilated tenement are gone.  

There are no pictures on the shelf, no crochet doilies on table tops. Steve's art is missing from the walls, and so are Sarah’s landscapes. He’s even put away that fine china vase, the one that made the trip across the Atlantic by some miracle, through Ellis Island, and into Brooklyn.  It belonged to Sarah's mother.

Suddenly, this place is so cold.  It doesn't smell like Sarah's cooking.  It's devoid of her laugh and already Steve's erased every trace of her presence.

Bucky doesn't understand why Steve needs to grieve that way, shutting up every bit of his mother and shutting himself up with it.  He doesn't understand why Steve ain’t crying or anywhere close to it, not when Bucky’s been on the verge of breaking down all day.

But Steve's never been able to get away with being vulnerable like that, not when he's got his size and his sickness to make up for.  Not if he still wants people to treat him like a man.

Steve drinks steadily, but doesn't speak.  Bucky doesn't say anything either.  He sat Shiva for his grandfather when he was ten and that's the first rule; don't talk until the grieving do, and then only talk about the dead if the grieving talk about the dead.  His bubbe wanted to talk about her husband.  Steve does not want to talk about his ma, at least not right now.

"Think I'll take your ma up on that job offer," Steve says abruptly, as he pours himself another glass and tops off Bucky’s, too.

"What job offer?"

"Working in the office.  Filing, or whatever she needs me to do.  Maybe your pop will teach me to drive.  I wouldn't be any good loading up the deliveries, but I could drive a truck.  My feet reach the pedals fine enough.  It wouldn't be a bad way to make a buck."

Bucky gnaws on the inside of his cheek.  By the time they make it to the funeral, his mouth's gonna be a bloody mess if Steve keeps carrying on like such an utter idiot.

"Didn't the exhaust have your asthma acting up last time we caught a ride?" Bucky asks, like the vivid memory of Steve hunched over in the passenger's seat, coughing so hard it even made Bucky's chest hurt, doesn’t make him shiver to this day.

"Right," says Steve, downing the rest of his drink.  "Well, guess its work in the office, then.  With the _women_."

"My ma would tan your hide, if she heard you taking that disparaging tone, talking ‘bout her work.  You know as well as I do that she basically runs the whole business and that my tateh prefers to get his hands dirty in the shop."

"I _know_ ," says Steve, groaning.  His head falls back to rest against the couch cushions and Bucky stares at the glass in his hands to prevent himself from staring at the stretch of muscle in his best friend's throat.  "I know.  I'm awful right now, Buck, just terrible to be around.  You should just go."

Bucky doesn't even bother replying to that, just lets out an incensed snort.  The noise has Steve almost smiling and he turns his head, looking at Bucky for the first time all day.  "My ma wouldn't like the way I said that, either."

"Couple of hard working ladies, the pair of them."

"Yeah."

"So, you'd work part time for my parents?  Finish up those art classes?"

Steve shrugs and Bucky is no longer able to just sit here and bite his cheek.

"Steve," he says.  “You’re gonna stay in class, right?”

"I'm not in the mood for a lecture."

" _Steve--_ "

"Please," he says, voice small and broken.  Steve finally sounds shattered, and Bucky shatters right along with him.

"Okay, pal. Okay.  There's no need to get into this now.  We'll figure it all out."

Eyes closed, Steve nods and scoots closer, until his face presses into Bucky's neck.  Getting his arms around Steve is such a relief.  It's all he's wanted to do, since yesterday when Steve showed him that telegram and then fled.  

He sighs and holds on tight.  Steve presses as close as he can, and when that isn't close enough, he climbs into Bucky's lap, skinny calves bracketing the outside of Bucky's thighs.

This is not the first time Steve's crawled into his lap.  It's become a semi regular occurrence since that first time, right after Sarah was diagnosed. Steve actually did cry that afternoon, big, angry tears while he cursed God.  And Bucky held him, tried to provide a little comfort.  He's not sure who kissed who.  

It was probably Bucky.  He's been trying not to kiss Steve for years.

Since, Bucky’s made sure Steve starts it.  That way, it’s not about Bucky, never about Bucky’s inability to just be normal and go after a girl. Instead, it’s about Steve and whatever he needs from Bucky to make it a little easier.  To make him forget for a few hot moments.  To make him feel good when everything else is just so damn bad.

Against his chest, Steve is shaking.  Bucky holds his breath, ready for Steve to finally cry, ready to cry right along with him.  Instead, Steve opens his mouth against Bucky’s throat, drags his teeth against Bucky’s skin and moves Bucky’s collar out of the way with his teeth.

He grinds his hips down into Buck’s lap, and Bucky still doesn’t understand why Steve needs to grieve this way, but he groans anyway. He wraps his arms around Steve’s waist, dragging him closer. They pant and rut and move until they’ve both ruined their pants.  

They get changed and pull the cushions off the couch, sleeping in a pile on the floor.  

When Bucky asks Steve to come live with his family, he’s not even surprised when Steve says no.

But he keeps asking, keeps pressing, until he’s down right begging after they put Sarah in the ground.  Maybe it’s the begging that does it, or maybe Steve’s just too fucking sad to argue anymore, but he finally agrees.  He finally believes Bucky when he tells him that he doesn’t have to do it all on his own.


	2. Chapter 2

In the morning, Rachel Barnes teaches him how to make pancakes.  Bucky approves of pancakes.  The syrup is real and thick, something he’s eaten before but only on occasion, as a treat, when they could afford it.  

(Rachel, with her three bedroom, top floor apartment and fancy dresses, can always afford it now that it’s 2014. Bucky’s pretty sure she could barely afford bread, back in 1941.)

They add fresh berries and a side of bacon, although Rachel won’t eat it and has him cook it in a specific pan.  He dips that in syrup, too, and it’s so sweet and so fatty.  It might be too much for his stomach, but he pours the syrup generously (excessively) over his whole plate anyway.  The bottle is considerably lighter than when they first sat down, and Bucky stares at it in horror when he realizes how much he used.

Just because Rachel can afford it, doesn’t mean Bucky deserves it.

But then she looks at the pancakes swimming in syrup and she beams.  She reaches out like she wants to touch his hand, then pulls it back and says, “You’re just like your sister.  She had a sweet tooth the size of Long Island and loved that maple syrup.  Eat as much as you like, tateleh.”

Rachel wants to touch his hand, but isn’t. Maybe she rewatched the clips last night of him fighting Steve on a bridge.  Maybe someone warned her to be careful.  Maybe there is something about Bucky’s own posture that just screams _please don’t touch me_.

Bucky stares at her knobby knuckles for too long.  She seems to enjoy hand holding and tough in general.  And she let Bucky eat all her syrup, so he bumps his knuckles against her wrist until she holds his hand.

He eats as much as he likes, because he has a sweet tooth like his sister used to.  He can barely remember her face but he clings to the knowledge that they had something in common, hordes this information that Rachel shares about her dearly departed wife because it's precious to both of them.

He knows he could ask for more, that Rachel would happily give him all her memories of Rebecca and every detail of her personality, too, but he can’t find the words to ask.  He can’t find any fucking words at all.  Speaking just doesn’t really seem like a thing he is capable of doing right now, so he does not ask about his sister and he does not thank Rachel for all the syrup.  

He does the dishes in silence, listening to Rachel chatter about something that happened long after he died and long before he came back to Brooklyn. She watches him while he works, absently interrupting herself to tell him where the utensils belong or the correct way to stack plates in the cabinet.  He followers her orders without thought.  It takes a long time, to make sure he gets it exactly right.

“Well,” says Rachel after he puts away the last dish.  She pats each armrest of her chair twice while Bucky dries the groves of his metal hand with a towel.  “What do you want to do today?”

Frowning, Bucky cocks his head to the side and ponders the question.  He’s barely managed to decide he wants soup, syrup, and to stay here.  And he ain’t entirely sold on the whole staying here situation.  A part of him is ready to jump out a window, and flee across the ocean.  At any given moment, he just might run off and get lost in Bucharest.

Coming up with wants for an entire day is so daunting it makes his skin itch.

He might need to sit down.

“Can you help me up?” Rachel orders, except it’s not an order, and her instructions for putting away the dishes weren’t either.  Rachel doesn’t give orders.  She asks for his help and he falls all over himself to _comply_.

The word makes him shiver. R _eady to comply_ , almost comes out of his mouth, except that’s not what this is.  Does it count as compliance if he wants to do it?

There’s that wanting again.  He wants to help Rachel.  That’s another to add to the goddamn list.

Bucky shakes off the memory of compliance - every muscle tensed and ready, every tendon and nerve eager to do what he's told, anticipating the pain of failure or the relief of success - to help Rachel push her chair away from the table.  He wraps a hand around her elbow to steady her as she reaches for her cane.  After a moment's hesitation, she tucks her arm in his and slowly leads him out of the kitchen.

“You know, I didn’t think to give you a tour last night,” Rachel says as they shuffle along.  “You saw the balcony, of course.  What, you aren’t a fan of front doors these days?”  She shakes her head and clucks her tongue and it takes Bucky a moment to realize that she’s teasing him.  He remembers her teasing him plenty, and teasing her right back, but he does not chase the memories.

A fucking headache sure ain’t gonna help figure out what he wants to do today.

“This is the living room,” Rachel continues.  “The black chair has a motor with a lift and the rocking chair was Beck’s favorite.  The TV has a million channels and all sort of ways to stream things.  I watch it too much.  Mostly old movies and cooking shows.  Chopped is my favorite right now.”

She glances up at Bucky and he knows he supposed to reply, maybe to tease her or to say something about the rocking chair or television these days, but his words still haven’t returned. (The only ones he can imagine speaking right now are _ready to comply_ , and he’d rather die than let that happen).

He nods solemnly because he can’t talk and hopes _Chopped_ isn’t as violent as it sounds.

Next on the tour is a sewing room, with big sunny windows and double doors that slide instead of open.  There’s a wall of bright fabric and three separate sewing machines, one dated, like something out of 1940, and the two others elaborate, modern things.  “I’m never in here any more.” Rachel sighs.  She looks sad.  Her voice, quiet.  “My old hands have trouble.  I knit when I can, though.  Do you want a hat?  I’ll make you a hat.”

When Rachel points towards the matching set of double doors across the hall - big wooden ones that slide instead of open - and describes what lies beyond them as Beck’s Office, Bucky needs to stand still and breathe for two solid minutes before he nods at Rachel and they shuffle forward. He is so far away from his words he genuinely doesn’t know if he’ll ever manage to speak again.

His dead sister’s office looks more like a library.  It’s got the same big windows as the sewing room, but every spare inch of wall space is covered by books, shelves and shelves of them. In the middle is a massive desk, a carved wooden thing that looks expensive and old.

On a small table between the two big windows across from the double doors sits a vase.  It’s a dingy and old, something that made it across the ocean and through Ellis Island to settle in Brooklyn a hundred years ago.  Bucky can’t remember if it belonged to his ancestors or Steve’s, and he won’t go digging around in his head to find out.  He wants to take care of Rachel.  It’s on his short list of things he wants.  Passing out on her would not be taking care of Rachel.

“She wrote her last three books in here,” Rachel murmurs, reaching out to run her finger over the spine of the nearest book, some thick tome about the revolutionary war.

Just days ago Bucky, sat in a DC library and the internet told him that about his sister.  That she was a scholar, an author, an academic.  But yesterday he didn’t even fucking remember why he should care about Rebecca Barnes. He knows better now.

She wrote books.  She was his sister and she _wrote books_. Someone related to him, someone important to him, wrote actual, published _books_.  The kind you can hold in your hands and smell their pages.

He remembers very little about Rebecca Barnes, but he’s beaming, a warm feeling billowing in his gut and working its way through his chest.  It takes him a moment to put a name to the emotion.  

_Pride_.

He remembers very little about Rebecca Barnes, but he’s fucking proud of her.

“You can take anything from here and read it.  That shelf is fiction.  The rest is non-fiction because your sister was obsessed with very boring things.”  Rachel surveys the shelves, shaking her head and pursing her lips.  “Make sure you put it back where you found it when you’re done, however.  That Beck Barnes was annoyingly devoted to the Dewey Decimal System.”

Bucky pulls a book off the closest shelf at random - _Hip Hop’s Inheritance: From the Harlem Renaissance to the Hip Hop Feminist Movement_ \-  letting it fall open between between his hands.  The print is so small, tinier even than _The Worst Book Ever Written_ he uncovered and then dismantled in the bowels of that disappointing library.  The little words make his head spin and he slams the book shut, returning it to its rightful place.

“Maybe you’ll work up to reading,” Rachel says, like she knows each of these books is just a headache waiting to happen for him.  “You know they have books on tape now? You can listen to just about anything.  Oh, and you can have Beck’s computer.  Lots you can do on a computer these days.  Come on.”

The tour continues down the hall with the bedrooms.  She points out hers like he wasn’t in it last night, following Rachel around because he hadn’t gotten his fill of just looking at her yet.  

“Steve took over this guest room a couple years ago,” Rachel says, opening the door at the end of the hall.  The room is a little darker than the others in the apartment, but with the same hardwood floors. There’s bright art hanging on the pale blue walls and wispy drapes over the one small window, and it appears so wholesome to him, warm and familiar in a way he’d forgotten.   “As you can see, it’s mostly gym now, but there’s still a bed in the corner.”

Rachel keeps on talking, but Bucky can’t hear her over the ringing in his ears.   He is staring at the red heavy bag in the corner, bright and new, but he sees a grey one, old and worn and patched in one too many places.   _His tateh is rich now, successful, and he could afford to take them all to a nicer gym closer to the family home in Park Slope, but the Buchanan brothers ain’t comfortable boxing with a bunch of swells. Their gym is dark. The pipes are leaking and there’s suspicious mold crawling up the walls, but they come here every Tuesday to hit the bag and each other.  Uncle Kieran is meaner and Uncle Corman is stronger, but Tateh is smarter.  Most Tuesdays, it’s Tateh boxing circles around them all when they spar.  He devotes as much time to teaching Bucky and Steve as he does to whomping his brothers-in-law. Steve always exhausts himself quick and has to sit on a stool with his sketchbook, but Bucky works for hours at the bag.  Tateh smiles at him and ruffles his hair and Bucky’s happy, Bucky’s loved, Bucky’s got a family and a home and a Steve--_

Breathing heavily, Bucky jerks out of the memory, the most vivid one yet.  He blinks and just sees the shiny new bag, hanging in the corner of what was once a guest room, suspended from an elaborate steel contraption probably designed to keep the super solider who installed it from punching the thing clear through the opposite wall.

Beside him, Rachel’s gone silent.  She’s looking up at him with big, wide eyes, her fingers curled slightly into the fabric of his sleeve.

“My tateh boxed,” he whispers.  Those three words have returned to him, but the rest are still missing.  His voice sounds croaky, like it aged properly while the rest of his body stayed young.  He sounds as old as Rachel _is_ , and he knows her hearing ain’t too great, but she nods like she understands him anyway.

“Your tateh boxed,” she echoes.  “You can too, if you want.”

Boxing does not immediately belong on his slowly expanding list of wants, but he takes it under consideration.  

“Well,” says Rachel, back out in the hall.  “That’s the whole tour.  You’ve obviously seen Steve’s room.”

Bucky swallows, because he hadn’t quite managed to connect the room he slept in last night with Steve Rogers aka The Lump aka Captain Fucking America, even though all the signs are there.  The mattress on the bed is hard, like something from the 1940s rather than the soft, squishy thing Bucky sat on last night while Rachel brushed his hair.  There’s beautiful art on the walls.  He’s almost certain they were done by Steve’s mother.  This morning, Bucky pulled on fresh clothes from the dresser.  The long sleeved shirt hangs a little baggy on his shoulders and he has to pull the drawstring around his waist knotted tight to keep the pants from slipping down his hips, but if he hadn’t dropped all that muscle alarmingly fast in the coupla weeks between the helicarriers and finding Rachel again, then the fit would be nearly perfect.

It’s painfully obvious, who the goddamn room belongs to.

“Maybe I should sleep in the guest room.” The words are back, and just like that speaking in complete fucking sentences doesn’t seem so impossible.

“What?” Rachel asks.  She peers up at him, frowning just like she did in 1941.  That was a year for a lot of frowning, but Bucky can’t remember what makes that true. “Why would you sleep in the guest room?”

“This room ain’t mine, is all.”

Rachel huffs.  “It might as well be.  I know you don’t remember all those years when you and Steve shared a room, so you’ll just need to believe me when I say that Steve would absolutely want you sleeping in here and not the former guest room that is now more gym than anything else.”

Bucky gnaws on his lip and considers the door before him.  “It’s not the same,” he insists.  “I’m not the same.  Just because we might’ve shared a room a goddamn century ago doesn’t mean I belong here now.  It’s different.”

“A lot is different,” Rachel agrees.  “But this doesn’t need to be.  Steve would want you to stay here, you’ll be most comfortable here.  We can ask him when he calls.”

“You think he’s gonna call _again_?”

“Of course he’ll call again. Probably any minute, knowing Steve. Just to check in on the pair of us.”

“I think I’ll take a nap now.”  Bucky decides. He’s allowed to want things now, and he wants to sleep.

And he does. In Steve’s room.  He breathes deep into a pillow, and tries to pick up any trace of Steve, even though he doesn’t remember what Steve’s supposed to smell like.

All he smells is laundry soap.

* * *

 

His nap lasts all day.  When he startles himself out of a nightmare, panicking in the few seconds it takes to figure out where he is and who he is, the sky is dark.

The soft murmur of Rachel’s voice reaches him through the walls, but he can’t make out any distinct words, just the soothing, scratchy cadence of her voice, her accent straight out of the lower east side, circa 1930.  He lays flat on his back until he’s calm enough to leave this room.  Until he’s James Buchanan Barnes enough to see Rachel Rosenbaum (Barnes).

It’s summer, but his dreams have left him chilled.  The clothes in the closet are not his, but Rachel seems to think there’s nothing fucking weird about him helping himself, so he pulls on a sweater over his hooded sweatshirt, adds another pair of thick socks to his feet.

In the hallway he treads so lightly that he’s pretty sure Rachel wouldn’t be able to hear him even if her ears worked as good as Steve’s did, after he got super-serumed up.  He silently follows the sound of Rachel’s voice to the kitchen.

“I’m not going in there,” Rachel says, obviously speaking into a phone.  There is only one heartbeat in the kitchen, one set of frail old lungs breathing.  “You don’t even want me to go in there, bubeleh.  You aren’t thinking right.  Are you sleeping? Eating? You better not be hurling yourself at danger if you aren’t thinking right.”

“I’m _fine_.  Jesus, will you stop fussing.  How can you be worrying about _me_ at a time like this?”  And that’s undoubtedly Captain America, his voice thin and high.  That means stress.  He’s stressed and it’s Bucky’s fault, probably. What else could they be talking about?

“I can worry about a lot of things at once,” Rachel says.  Bucky leans back against the wall, around the counter from the archway that leads to the kitchen, and closes his eyes.

Even without looking at them, Bucky can picture their expressions just based on their inflection alone.  He does not know them, but he does, somehow, and the dissonance between not remembering a goddamn thing and absolutely knowing these weird little details is fucking bizarre.

Eavesdropping is rude and his ma raised him better than this, but surveillance is useful and he’s in dire need of good intel.  He closes his eyes, fights his nausea, and listens anyway, despite what his ma would say.  He will not chase the memory, not the one of the lessons his mother taught him or the echo of Steve’s voice, with that same, stressed tone when Bucky got his draft notice, when Bucky was strapped down on a table and--

He does not chase the memory.

“Rachel, I--”

“Steve.”  Rachel sounds tired as she interrupts, as if this argument has gone on for a few rounds before Bucky woke up and started listening in. She takes a deep breath.  “I know it’s difficult, but I gotta believe he’s still asleep in there.  I’m not going to check on him because that’s his space now and I want him to feel safe there, not like somebody’s gonna be bursting in at all hours.  And from what you and Sam have said, it’d be a pretty foolish move to surprise him given everything he’s been through.”

Bucky winces, wishing he could reassure Rachel that he’d never hurt her, not in a million years, not if she woke him from the most terrible nightmare or if she yelled at him or if she saw fit to punish him.

But he was so confused when he woke up a few minutes ago, that he can’t guarantee _shit_.  

He might need to figure out how to lock himself in that room while he sleeps.

“What if he’s not there?” Steve whispers and Bucky’s chest hurts.  He rubs at his heart with the heel of his hand and keeps working at not puking.  “What if he slipped out the window hours ago and disappeared somewhere I can’t find him?”

“I don’t think he did.  I think he wants to be here, even if he’s not sure why.”

“But you said he went to take a nap eleven hours ago! That’s half a fucking day! You really think he’s been sleeping this whole time? After sleeping all last night?”

After spending most of the last seventy years in cryo, Bucky thought he’d be tired of unconsciousness.  Apparently not, if he’s sleeping that goddamn much.  Although he has never felt particularly well rested, not once in seven decades.  Maybe getting frozen is not a replacement for actual sleep.

“Steven,” Rachel snaps and he’s surprised to hear her lose patience with Steve.  “He’s been hurt.  His mind’s been _injured_.  What do you do if you hurt you arm or your foot? You rest it.  The same goes for the brain.  There was trauma.  He’s going to sleep a lot.”

“Oh.” Steve takes a shaky breath, the sound tinny and strained through the speakerphone.  “I never thought of it like that.”

Bucky never quite thought about it like that either, but he feels more like Bucky Barnes every time he wakes up, with more settled, easy memories and less fear.

“A century of medical advancement and we still don’t know _anything_ about the human brain,” Rachel replies.  “But all the experts seem to at least agree that sleep is really important.”

“So you’re saying it’s a good thing he’s been asleep more than he’s been awake since he got there.”

“Yes.  It’s good for his head and it means he feels safe enough to be vulnerable.”

“Oh,” Steve says again, and there are a few moment of silence, while Rachel and Steve just breathe.  Bucky fully intends to show his face in the kitchen, but his limbs are frozen like they were on the rooftop across the street yesterday.

“Did he tell you?” Steve breaks the quiet. “About what happened to him?”

“No.”

“How do you know then?

“I don’t know the details.” Rachel sounds old and tired again.  “But I’ve seen trauma.  We’ve had kids in here with that same look, who went through terrible things and need help to recover. You can see it in the eyes.  And a lot of them slept like it was an Olympic sport. For _days_. The brain needs rest.”

“This ain’t like anything you’ve seen before, Rachel. The fucking things they did to him.”

Bucky’s suddenly sure, despite the moth-bitten, hole-ridden, fucking patchwork quilt his mind is, that he’s never heard that tone from Steve Rogers aka The Lump aka Captain America. The fury in his voice promises swift death and painful retribution and it has Bucky cowering back against the wall again.  It’s dangerous.  

Bucky’s heart races and he’s well acquainted with this emotion.  Terror.

“That is true.” But Rachel doesn’t seem even a little bit daunted by Steve’s tone.  She always was the brave one. “You and Bucky are both here decades after you died.  Of course it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before, but when you get down to it, Bucky survived a great trauma.  He was kidnapped and tortured and hurt and brainwashed, and the aftermath of that is absolutely something I’ve seen before so you better stop arguing with me and trust me when I say he needs sleep, he needs to feel safe, and that I will not be barging into his room!”

Rachel’s breath is coming in quick and Bucky does not chase any asthma memories.

“Okay,” Steve whispers.  And leave it to Rachel Rosenbaum (Barnes) to turn Captain America from murderous to scolded in seconds flat.  “I trust you.”

“Good.”

“You’ve seen brainwashed kids?”

Rachel sighs.  She sounds so sad that Bucky’s once more inspired to creep towards the kitchen, just so he can hold her hand.  She seems to like that.

“There is something called conversion therapy and it’s _horrible_ and I don’t want you thinking about it right now because you’re already hurting so much, bubbeleh.”

“Okay,” Steve whispers again.

“Beck was better at all this,” Rachel says.

The evening’s been emotionally fraught enough without bringing his sister into it, and preventing any further discussion on her finally gets him moving.  He slips into the kitchen, leaning against the archway.

Rachel doesn’t notice him, so he clears his throat - rather loudly - until she looks up.  She beams at him, a bizarre reaction, and Bucky’s got to stare at his feet, suddenly so uncomfortable. His presence and his goddamn napping is stirring up such a fuss, and he doesn’t like it.

Maybe he should just leave out the window, remove himself from the equation, give everyone one less thing to worry about.

“Ah, there you are,” Rachel says.  “Was it a good nap?”

“What? Rach? Is he there?”  Over the course of this conversation, Steve’s gone from desperate and panicky to terrifyingly murderous to thoroughly chastised, and now he’s back to sounding like an overeager puppy.  Figuring out these quick changes in emotion is exhausting _Bucky_ , and he’s not even feeling them.

He hopes Steve is able to get in an eleven-hour nap at some point.

“Yes, Steve.  He just shuffled into the kitchen looking sleepy as anything.”

Bucky rolls his eyes at the ground and tucks his hair behind his ears.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says.

It makes Bucky shiver.

“Steve, it’s very late and we’re gonna eat now,” Rachel says.  

“Can you stay on the line with me?” Steve asks.

Bucky glances up to see Rachel looking at him, waiting for an answer.  This is his decision, apparently, and it’s hard work to figure out what he wants in this moment.  He wants to cause no fuss.  He wants to sleep like a normal person.  He wants to promise Rachel that he’d never hurt her.  He wants to flee to Bucharest and he also wants to stay here, where he can sleep eleven hours with only minimal bad dreams.

He wants Steve to be okay and this want seems to override all the others.

Bucky nods.  He and Rachel heat up some leftover meatloaf she’s got in her ice box.  Steve stays on the line, both of them listening quietly to Rachel chatter about something called disco.

* * *

 

His sleep schedule is a mess, even stranger than Rachel’s.  She can’t manage more than five hours in a row, but when Bucky manages to fall asleep he’ll be out for a solid eighteen and then he’ll be up for the twenty after that.  Or sometimes he’ll only be up for two after that.  

Mostly, all the sleep is nice, pleasant, even peaceful.  Sometimes, there are nightmares.

Rachel gives him Beck’s old tablet and Bucky sets an alarm on it to wake him in the morning, so at least he’ll be around for breakfast.

When he’s awake at night, he’s started lurking in Beck’s office.  He reads for quick intervals, catching up on the history he missed - or the history Hydra purposefully distorted to support the lies they told - but his eyes usually don’t last more than ten minutes at a time.  Reading inevitably leads to headaches, from the memories he wants to chase and the small print making his temples throb.

He takes his breaks sitting Beck’s chair at Beck’s desk, flipping through photo albums. He hasn’t touched the ones that include his own face, or Steve’s.  So far, he’s only looked at things that happened after the war, while he was being torn apart, body and mind, and molded into a weapon.

The photo albums tell him that Beck and Rachel were happy.

His favorite picture, the one he keeps returning to over and over, is labeled _Passover, 1958_.  It’s the Barnes Family, in the living room of the old brownstone.  He doesn’t recognize the room or the furniture or even remember what his family home looked like, but he just knows in his bones that’s where they are.

It’s six people all piled onto a sofa meant for three, four _tops_.  On one end sits George Barnes (his father).  His smile is small, reserved, just the corners of his mouth ticked up slightly, but Bucky can tell by his eyes that he was happy.  In his lap sits Winifred Buchanan Barnes (his mother), beaming and beautiful.  She aged well, just a few lines around her eyes and her thick hair steel gray.  She’s got her arms around her husband, holding him close.  

Squished in next to them is Hannah and squished in next to her is Hank (his siblings). Bucky does not recognize them, hasn’t even remembered anything about them, wouldn’t even know their names if Rachel hadn’t mentioned them, but they have to be the twins.  They look more like their mother and the rest of the Buchanans in these photo albums, while Beck was all Barnes.

And there is Beck on the far end of the sofa, pressed into the arm.  The camera caught her mid-eye roll, but she looks amused despite herself, like she’s a moment away from laughing.  Her hair is shorter than the version of her that flashes in his memory.  But most remarkable part about this picture is Rachel, sitting on Beck’s lap, a mirror image of his parents on the other end of the couch.  She’s draped over Beck, her skirt rucked up a little too high.  She’s got her forehead pressed into Beck’s temple, her grin wide and eyes closed.  Beck’s hand rests on Rachel’s thigh, natural as anything.  Right there in front of his whole family.

Bucky doesn’t have the memory to tell him why that’s important, the way Beck and Rachel could be themselves at home, but he returns to this picture again and again, night after night.

* * *

 

There are three rules so far.  Bucky and Rachel come up with them together.  

The biggest rule, the one Rachel reiterates over and over again, is that this apartment is Bucky’s home now and he’s supposed to treat it as such.

(Home is a somewhat baffling concept, but he’s good enough at faking this rule for Rachel even if he still thinks he might decide to disappear in Bucharest tomorrow or the day after that or next week.)

The second rule is Rachel will not touch him without permission, either verbal or a head nod, or Bucky touching her first.  Each day, when Rachel hesitates to take his hand over breakfast or pat his shoulder as they watch animal shows on Netflix, this rule gets more annoying.  It’s up to Bucky to change this one though, if he wants, and he hasn’t gotten around to it yet.

Rule number three is that Rachel does not talk about the years she knew him.  She does not bring up anything that happened before 1945, unless Bucky brings it up first.  The one time Rachel had told a story about Bucky and Steve at Sully’s bar, the scene she painted sounded so goddamn great that Bucky gave in to the urge to chase the memory. The results were an excess of vomit, a headache that lasted half a day, and rule number three.

Rachel keeps the rules written in the little notebook she’s got on hand at all times, full of the things she won’t let herself forget.  Bucky catches her reading through it half a dozen times on bad days, only once over breakfast on good days.

They are good rules. Nothing like the rules he used to live under.  Best of all, he had a hand in their creation and can change them, whenever he see fit.

* * *

 

Rachel’s napping one afternoon, but Bucky slept nearly twenty hours before waking this morning to his alarm, so he’s wide awake.  It’s a Wednesday.  He pokes around in the apartment like he always does when he’s up and Rachel’s asleep.

Today, he’s focused on a storage closet where he finds a crate full of old records and a record player to match.  Records immediately go on Bucky’s list of wants, but he’s feeling a little too raw today for music, a little too thin.  Music was important to Bucky Barnes once, just like it was important to his sister Rebecca, and he’s not feeling Bucky Barnes enough for it.

(Last time he slept, more memories of his lost time had returned to him instead of those from his life before the war.  He spent an hour in bed after he woke, pushing those memories back, willing himself to forget.  He’s good at forgetting.  Almost as good at forgetting as he is at killing.  And he successfully managed to shove those memories back into a box in his head, to lock them up tight.)

Carefully, reverently, he takes the crate of records and the record player out of the closet, placing them both on Beck’s desk, ready and waiting for him when he’s feeling James Buchanan Barnes enough to listen to them.

In the back of the closet, he finds a big, white board on wheels.  It’s currently serving as a coat rack, but there is a small shelf running along the bottom of the board that holds brightly colored markers, like the surface is meant for writing.

Bucky folds up the coats and scarves, rests them on a box, and wheels the board out into the living room.  He angles it just so next to the television, so it will catch the morning light that always pours through the living room windows.

He’s not sure what he’s going to do with this big, white board yet, but it’s gonna be _something_.  Like with his memories, he feels like some part of him already knows his own goddamn plan for this big, white board, but he can’t access it yet.

In the weeks he’s been staying with Rachel, he’s learning to be patient.  It’ll come to him when it comes to him.

When Rachel finds him twenty minutes later, standing in the living room and staring at the big white board, Bucky freezes.

This is against the rules.  She gave him free reign of Beck’s office, but not the storage closet. Although he’s managed to keep Rachel from having to punish him for weeks now, this is it.  He finally fucked up and she’ll have to hurt him now.  It’s not her fault.  Bucky made the mistake, broke the rules, went out of bounds, pulled this big, white board into the fucking living room for no goddamn reason.

She’s such a frail old thing, it probably won’t even hurt.

It was a good run.  And he might deserve whatever punishment she doles out, but after he also might have to finally make good on the urge to flee to Bucharest that always is ticking, right under his skin.

Rachel stops in her tracks, eyes going a little wide when she sees the big, white board.  “Where on earth did you find that thing?” she demands.

Bucky clenches his jaw and forces himself to stay still, with his chin tilted down and his hands clasped behind his back.  He braces for punishment and forces himself to reply, “In the closet.”

And then Rachel Rosenbaum/Barnes does the most peculiar goddamn thing.  She fucking _laughs_.

“You and your sister, both drawn to this whiteboard monstrosity.”  Rachel shakes her head and shuffles closer, but not close enough to hit him, not close enough to touch.  

(Sometimes punishments are words - _Captain America’s dead, crashed his plane into the arctic, couldn’t even survive a week after you abandoned him_  - and sometimes words are worse.  It’ll probably be words, from Rachel, harsh and cruel and designed to strike where he’s most vulnerable.)

Wincing all the while, Rachel lowers herself down into her chair.  She shakes her head and smiles ruefully at the whiteboard, not even glancing at Bucky.

“Beck used to roll that out,” Rachel continues and Bucky tenses.  Beck might be where he’s most vulnerable.  Everywhere might be where’s he’s most vulnerable. “And I’d hate it.  That board used to mean I was about to lose my wife to _research_ for months.  She plotted out her last four books on that board.”  Rachel turns to smile at him, then, and asks, “What are you gonna do with it, tateleh?”

Bucky relaxes, piece by piece.  His jaw unclenches and his shoulders slump, his hands falling apart behind his back so he can cross them over his chest.

Digging through the closet is not against the rules he and Rachel came up with.  Sure, she never explicitly said he could look through her storage, but rule number one states that Bucky is to treat this apartment like his home.

Last night’s memories are back in the box, but they are still touching him, bleeding through so much that somehow he’s managed to confuse Rachel with a parade of faceless handlers.  

They did the punishing.  Not Rachel. Rachel is kind.  Rachel asks him what he wants.  Rachel loves Steve Rogers and loves Rebecca Barnes and might even love Bucky too, if he can trust her words.

( _Good night, James Buchanan.  I love you very much._ )

Bucky breathes out a sigh of relief and collapses down on the couch, sprawling out and taking up as much room as he sees fit.

“I dunno yet,” he says.  “Something, though.  I’m gonna do something with it.”

* * *

 

Steve Rogers aka The Lump aka Captain America calls a lot.

Usually, he calls after breakfast and then again after dinner.  Sometimes, he doesn’t call for a solid twenty hours and then the phone rings in the middle of the day, Steve falling all over himself apologizing for missing a call.  When Rachel asks what had him too busy to call after dinner, he stammers some excuse and that’s how Bucky knows that he was running a mission.  Slaughtering Hydra seems like the only thing that can keep Steve from calling on schedule.

Bucky wakes up one day and realizes he likes it, when Steve calls.  He likes Steve’s voice.  He does not like that Steve is putting himself in danger, on those days when he’ll skip a phone call.

* * *

 

It’s a Monday and Bucky wakes up with his 8:30 alarm because Rachel likes to eat breakfast at 9:30 on the dot and she’ll just eat junk if he’s not up to cook something better.  He’s got three days in a row of sleeping through night, with only a two hour nap each day after lunch.  

It’s a Monday and Bucky wakes up with questions.

“Did my parents like me?” he asks while he scrambles eggs and Rachel sits at the table, reading the paper with a magnifying glass.

Rachel startles, accidently crinkling the paper in her shock.

“Of course they did,” Rachel whispers. “They loved you.”

“But they made me leave, right?”

“Yes, they did.  It was before I knew you. By the time you went off to war, you were on better terms.”

“Huh,” Bucky says.  He does not chase the memory, just lets it percolate on the edge of his consciousness.  “Why are all Steve’s clothes so thin?  I’ve got to put on six goddamn layers to stay warm.”

Rachel, who’s mind is always jumping around from topic to topic, is not fazed by his abrupt subject change. “The man is a human radiator now that he’s all big.  I should’ve thought to get you your own wardrobe weeks ago.  We need to do some shopping.”

Bucky whirls around at the stove to gape at her.  “You want me to go _outside_?”

“No, no.  The internet will do.  After breakfast.”

So they eat breakfast and then Bucky sets off to find Rebecca’s laptop computer.  He settles in next to Rachel on the couch.  Bucky enters the password - _R &B040146_ \- and does what Rachel says, navigating to the Frankie Barnes website.  Together they browse through sweaters and jeans and good, solid boots.  Rachel insists that he ignore the prices - “ _Bucky, tateleh, you and Steve both sent home more money to Beck and me than we knew what to do with.  And after the war, it was that money of yours that gave us the opportunity to make a go of it on our own.  What, you think we woulda been able to build all this without the start you gave us?  Back then, society wasn’t set up to let a women be a success or even survive without a husband. But you gave us a chance, so when I say what’s mine is yours, you better believe I mean it.  I will be so offended if you don’t take this money.”_ \- and focus on what he likes. Bucky does not add the clothes he wants to the cart, instead putting the ID number of each in an email, one Rachel sends directly to someone with a Frankie Barnes email address.

“I want a Captain America t-shirt,” Bucky says when that’s done, grinning at Rachel.  He is so goddamn proud of articulating this want, even if it should be a simple thing.  Rachel grins back and Bucky ends up ordering five Captain America t-shirts.

“Was your favorite color red?“ he asks later, when they finish up lunch.  They’re on the balcony, Bucky in the nano mask and Rachel wearing a pair of overly glamourous sunglasses.

Their little shopping boondoggle distracted him for a while, but he’s still full of questions.

“Still is,” she says, smiling and gesturing to her blouse. Bright red and as glamorous as her sunglasses.

“Did Beck used to hate you?”

“A little bit.  Got over that when we started living together, though.”

“Did you teach me Yiddish?”

“No.  You knew a few words and we talked about me giving you lessons, but it just never happened.”

“Was 1941 a bad year?”

“Yes.”

“Did Steve almost die?”

“Yes.”

“But we wouldn’t let him.”

“No, we would _not_.”

”Was Rebecca obsessed with the Andrews Sisters?”

Rachel lets out a delighted, chirping laugh.   “The Andrews Sisters.  I’d forgotten how much she loved them.  She listened to music less, after the war.  Didn’t have time for it with all her studying, and I think it reminded her too much of you, although she’d never say it.”

Bucky frowns.  Before this moment, he never considered how is so called death impacted anyone else.  He doesn’t like the thought of anyone grieving over him, but that might be part of this whole being a person situation.  People love each other, even if it’ll mean hurting when they die or leave.

“That Beck Barnes,” Rachel says, shaking her head.  “I swear she wanted to _be_ an Andrews Sister.  She’d swoon over their voices and I’d get jealous, but then she’d sing their songs and I’d be the one swooning.  What a voice she had.  She might’ve listened to less music after the war, but she kept on singing, until her COPD got too bad for it.  You two had that in common.”

Bucky blinks.  “Had what in common?”

“Singing voices that made you sound like angels,” Rachel says like it’s obvious.  Like the word angel has ever been associated with the goddamn Winter Soldier before.  “Beck had the talent to be an Andrews Sister, but her drive was always towards knowledge.  She wanted to know everything, as much as possible.  She spent her whole life singing and learning.”

Rachel goes from beaming to happy to teary and heartbroken in a blink.  Bucky freezes, sure he did something wrong, sure he made Rachel cry.  Maybe he should leave, should go to Bucharest so he can’t accidentally make Rachel cry.  

“Oh, how I loved your sister,” Rachel says, her voice breaking.  “I miss her every second.”

“You’re crying because you miss her,” Bucky says, just like Rachel told him that first night.  

“Yes.  But having you here to listen to me yammer about her.” Rachel clear her throat.  “Well. It makes missing her ache a little less.”

Bucky nods.  He aches for Beck too, even if he can’t really remember her and wouldn’t want her to see him like this.  Beck wanted to know everything when she was alive, as much as possible.  Rachel just said so.  Which means she would want to know about Hydra and The Winter Soldier and the last miserable seventy years.  

Bucky couldn’t stand it, if she knew all that.

Maybe he won’t go to Bucharest then, if his presence eases any of Rachel’s aches.

* * *

 

Bucky finds five dry erase markers - black, red, blue, green, purple.  In the middle of the white board he draws a straight black line, from end to end lengthwise.  At the left end he draws a little check mark and a date, September 16, 1917.   On the far right, he draws a similar check mark and another date, May 23, 2014. The day Hydra fell.  The day Bucky woke up.

He’s got no fucking clue what to do with the vast space between.  

“You were drafted on December 2nd, in 1941,” Rachel replies.  She’s watching him like it is totally normal goddamn behavior to leap up in the middle of a Charlie fucking Caplin movie to scribble on a board.  “Five days before Pearl Harbor.”

Bucky’s also got no fucking clue what Pearl Harbor means, but he adds the tick marks. Rachel goes back to staring at the television and Bucky remembers Steve’s birthday so he adds that too.  He adds words to the dates, using the blue marker to write JBB Born, SGR Born, Draft, PH, and Freedom.

That’s enough for the afternoon.  Bucky goes to take a nap.  It lasts twelve hours and he wakes up remembering Rebecca’s birthday, both the date and how fucking ecstatic he was to be a big brother, how terrified he was when his Ma sat him down and places this tiny little creature in his arms.

He’s done a lot of bad things in his unnaturally long life, but at least he never hurt that tiny creature his Ma put in his arms when she was only a few hours old.  Today, at least, he’s grateful she’s not here to know what he did.

Maybe tomorrow he’ll wake up missing her, even if he can barely remember more than her birthday.

* * *

 

Rachel speaks to him like she knows him.  It helps him remember himself.

Sometimes, he worries he will say the wrong thing, that he’ll out himself as Not The Same Enough and Not James Buchanan Barnes Enough for Rachel’s taste but, like with his memories, he learns to just let the words come out without thinking about them too much.  Whatever he says must be Enough, because Rachel never looks at him like a stranger.

Bucky never looks at her like a stranger, either, even if he’s only got a handful of incomplete memories back that feature her.  His fucked up brain must be holding on to more than he knows because when he cooks he takes into account her likes and dislikes, adding paprika and salt and dill until the kitchen smells like it 1939.  When he selects a movie he avoids science fiction and focuses on mysteries because he knows her preferences. It’s like muscle memory, his subconscious remembering what he can’t.

He does not chase any of the fucking memories, no matter how much he wants to remember how he knows that she hates reading and once could memorize someone’s name just by meeting them once.  She used to smell like Joy perfume and she still smells like flowers, but it’s different.

It’s endlessly frustrating and completely comforting at the same time.  He might not have the details, but he knows Rachel’s favorite color is red and he knows he belongs right here.

This whole thing’s bound to be way worse with Steve Rogers aka The Lump aka Captain Fucking America.

* * *

 

Records are the only way to listen to music.  He works his way through Beck’s, making two piles (ones he can listen to without wanting to throw up, those he can’t because they are too familiar).

Rachel tells him the internet is a great way to find more music, and he uses Beck’s computer, but there is too much.  People these days don’t seem to care for listening to a whole album, from start to finish.  They jump around and mix up artists on playlists that make no sense and Bucky doesn’t like it.

Once upon a time, he liked loud music, all wailing horns and driving bass that he could feel in his chest as he spun a dame around on the dance floor.  Now, it’s too much, too big.  He likes quiet music, now, a little bit melancholy, with acoustic instruments and  sweet, small voices.  Maybe he’ll work his way up to rediscovering blues and jazz, and the new stuff those genres led to.  Rock and roll and hip hop and a million things in between.  But now he need it quiet and simple,sad and pretty.

He ends up ordering more records using Rachel’s credit card. He listens to them straight through, first side A and then side B, as God intended.

* * *

 

“Hey,” says Steve, when Rachel answers the phone after dinner.  She places it on the kitchen table, the speaker on as loud as it will go, while Bucky dries their plates and puts them away.  

“Hi, bubbeleh.  How was your day?”

“Just a whole lot of driving.  You know, all the exits in this country look eerily similar when you get outta the cities.  We stopped three times today and I swear it was like we didn’t travel at all because each exit was the same, gas station, convenience store, fast food, maybe a hotel.  It’s disconcerting, is what it is.”

“It’s about time you saw more of this country you are the captain of,” Rachel replies, chuckling.  “Really, they should’ve called you Captain New York.”

“More like Captain Brooklyn,” Bucky mutters.  Then everyone kinda freezes for a minute, because Bucky absolutely doesn’t fucking talk when Steve’s on the phone.

“Wait, what?” Steve sounds giddy. “Was that Buck?  What’d you say, honey? I didn’t quite catch it.”

But Bucky’s lost his words again.  He opens his mouth because giving Steve what he wants is on Bucky’s own short list of wants, but he just can’t.  He just _fucking_ can’t.

“He said you should be called Captain Brooklyn,” Rachel supplies.  “Because even your familiarity with the other boroughs in your own cities is lacking.”

Steve laughs so hard it has Bucky smiling long after they’ve hung up.

* * *

 

Bucky bursts through Rachel’s bedroom door approximately twenty-three seconds after walking to her it and bidding her good night.

( _Good night, James Buchanan.  I love you very much._ )

She’s startles and then raises an eyebrow at him, resting one hand on her hip and leaning heavily on her cane.

“Steve called me honey.”  The words burst outta his mouth like he burst into here just second ago and Rachel frowns at him.

“What?”

“Earlier? On the phone.  He called me _honey_.”

“Ah.” Rachel grins and nods.  “He did, didn’t he.”

“Does he do that?”

“From time to time.”

“Will he do it again?”

“Probably.  Unless you tell him not to.”

“Why would I tell him _not_ to?”

“Then he’ll do it again.”

“Oh.” Bucky blinks at her.  He bites his lip and stares down at his feet as Rachel smirks at him.  “Okay.  That’s good.  I’m gonna sleep now.”

“Alright,” Rachel says.  And she has the decency not to laugh at him. “Sleep tight, James Buchanan.  I love you very much.”

* * *

 

He jerks awake in the middle of the night, biting back a scream.  Heart racing, palms sweating, it takes him ten long seconds to remember where he is, to remember who he is.

_James Buchanan Barnes. 32557038, wait,_ no.

He doesn’t need that number any more.  He’s not a soldier, not for any country or any terrorist organization. He has a Brooklyn address instead now, a home.  He lives somewhere, with a person who knows him, and the blood and pain in his dream was just that.  A dream, not a memory.

He breathes deep and even - like he’s a tiny, blond asthmatic in 1939, trying to stay calm - and Rachel suggested he look for five real, concrete things he can see and touch when he gets like this.  

One, Sarah’s painting, of rolling green hills and a pale blue sky.  Two, the book on his bedside table that he can read for a whole 20 minutes now without his head aching.  Three, the four blankets spread out at the foot of the bed.  Four, a dresser full of Steve Rogers’ clothes that Bucky wears and the new ones Rachel ordered for him. And five, the cardboard box that arrived yesterday, containing a whole heap of art supplies that Bucky bought through Amazon on a whim.

He breathes easy.  He knows his name.  The dream is fading from his mind, the memories associated with it successfully beat back and locked up.  He’s _fine_.

But he can still hear someone crying, a pathetic, mewling thing.  He hates it when people cry, because it’s always his fault.  And usually he can get it to stop echoing around in his head, when he’s breathing right and he’s present in this room, present in this body.

It takes him an embarrassingly long four minutes to figure out that the pathetic little sniffling is not, in fact, all in his head and is, in fact, coming from the room down the hall.

He sits up fast, reaching towards the gun under his pillow.  Over the sound of his own racing heartbeat, he listens for other racing heartbeats, the muffled sounds of boots on the carpet, fingers gripping triggers and the even breathing of soldiers preparing for battle.

But there’s nothing.  Just his own pounding heartbeat and Rachel’s quiet cries.  There is no one else here for him to protect her from.

Bucky lets go of the gun.

Rachel crying still make him want to run away.  Logically, he knows it’s probably not his fault that Rachel’s crying in the middle of the night, but he fucking _feels_ like it is anyway.

He thinks he made a lot of people cry.  He beats back those memories with a goddamn mental broom.

The apartment is chilly at night.  So Bucky adds a sweater over his long sleeve t-shirt and a hoodie over that.  He pulls on another thick pair of socks and decides the gloves, scarf, and hat would be overkill.

He both painfully wants to provide Rachel some comfort and he also absolutely wants to be no where near her crying.

So he paces outside the hall for another few minutes before knocking lightly.

“Rach?” he murmurs.

“Oh,” she says from inside the room.  His knock-off-serum-enhanced hearing picks up the sounds of her covers shifting around, her grunt of pain as she sits up.  “Bucky?” she asks, like she’s not totally sure he’s real and here.

“Yeah.  You okay?”

“I’m fine, tateleh. I’m fine.”

“You’re _crying_.”

Rachel sighs.  “Good point.  You can come in, you know.”

So Bucky takes a deep breath and goes into the bedroom.  Rachel’s sitting up against the headboard, drying her eyes and making no move to turn on the light.  She’s in the center of the large bed.  Bucky wonders what side of the bed Beck once occupied.  

Bucky used to sleep on the left side. He does not chase the memory.

Rachel scoots over a little, patting the mattress beside her.  Bucky sits next to her on the plushy, awful thing, pulling his legs to his chest and resting his chin on his knees.

He’s pretty sure this is the closest he’s even been to getting a woman in bed, and he wants to make a joke about it, but Rachel’s still sniffling so it doesn’t seem like the time.

He thinks she’d appreciate it, if she wasn’t crying in the middle of the night.

“Did I make you cry?” Bucky whispers.  It’s selfish, to be worried about himself instead of Rachel, but he’s gotta know.

“What?”

“I can go.  If I made you cry, I’m gonna go to Bucharest.”

“ _What_? Bucharest?”

“It’s my backup plan.  In case I made you cry and have to leave.”

Rachel makes a little growly sound, deep in her throat, like she’s very unhappy.  “You do not need to leave.  Not ever.  You didn’t make me cry and even if you did, then I expect we’d discuss it like adults rather than you just running away, fleeing out a window or whatever superhero thing you’ve been planning with this backup plan of yours.”

Sufficiently chastised - but not punished, Rachel wouldn’t do that - Bucky nods and closes his eyes. “Was it a bad dream?” he asks.

Rachel laughs, but there is no humor in it.  The sound hurts his heart.  

“A good dream, actually, but then I woke up.”

“Oh.” He’s had a few of those, himself.

Bucky opens his eyes and turns his head to look at her, keeping his cheek on his knees. Rachel still doesn’t bother with the light, but she’s staring straight ahead, like she’s seeing something that’s not just her dresser.

“I miss your sister,” Rachel says.

“Me too.”

“I miss my wife.”

“Yeah.”

“This mind of mine, it’s like a sieve.” She signs, not particularly upset by the holes in her memory.  She says it like it’s a fact, something she has stopped resenting so much.  Something she has learned to live with, even if it just plain sucks sometimes.

Bucky thinks he might be projecting.

“Same,” he murmurs.

Rachel chuckles and Bucky lets her hold his hand when she reaches out for it.  She might forget a lot but she’s very good at sticking to rule number two.

“So I had this good dream,” Rachel continues. “And I can’t remember what was so good about it, but Beck was there.  That’s enough to make a perfect dream, for me.  But then I woke up and Beck wasn’t with me in bed, and I couldn’t remember that she’s gone.  I figured she was in the bathroom or something, so waited and I waited and I waited, a whole twenty minutes for her to come back to bed before I realized she’s never coming back and I just--”  

She sobs and does not quiet, even when Bucky gently squeezes her hand.

“It’s like losing her all over again, every time I remember.  God, I miss my wife.  I don’t even know who I am, without Rebecca there to remind me.  What do I even _do_ now?”

“I dunno.  We were gonna order some more Captain America t-shirts on the internet tomorrow.”

“That is a good way to spend the day,” Rachel murmurs.  “Everyone needs a wardrobe full of Captain America t-shirts.  Even Beck had one.”

And then Rachel gets quiet again.  She’s not sobbing like she was before, just sniffling intermittently and looking so miserable that Bucky really does want to flee out the bedroom window.

“It’s so silly,” Rachel whispers.  “To be crying like this.  It’s been a year, after all.”

“A year’s nothing.” Because it’s not.  There are whole decades Bucky can’t remember.  A year can pass in a blink, in a heartbeat, can pass in a prison cell or in cryo or on a metal operating table.   “No time at all.”

“Well, I suppose you’re right.  When you compare it to all the time we were together.  A year is nothing at all.”

Rachel and Beck were together for the entire seventy years that Bucky was out there killing, and some dark, twisted, Winter Soldier-esque part of him hates them for it.  He burns with resentment and jealousy, because they had everything he could ever imagine wanting. A home they made together, each other.  Beck had her writing and Rachel had her clothes and the both of them had a whole pack of queer people to help.  They had it all and the twisty part of Bucky wants to hate them for it, but he lets go of the feeling just as quickly as it came on.

“I don’t know how to not be married,” Rachel says. “I wasn’t any good at it even before Beck, always looking for family somewhere, looking for someone to share a life with.  And it took us the whole war to figure ourselves out, but even before that I felt so married to her.  I still feel so married to her.  What am I supposed to do with that?”

Bucky’s got nothing for her.  No answers.  Nothing that could make her hurt less.  Except staying, maybe.  He could stay.  It’s the only thing she’s really asked him for, over and over, in the few weeks he’s been here.

“I think I feel married,” Bucky says, tilting his head to the side and staring at the dresser.  He holds Rachel’s hand and tries to find the memory without pushing, coaxing it to the surface gently, reverently.  It’s right there, on the edge of his mind, big and complicated, sitting in his gut kinda like bad gas.  “Or I felt married?  Was I married?”

“Might as well have been,” Rachel replies.

“To Steve, you mean.”

“You certainly shared your whole lives.”

“Like you and Beck.”

“Just like that.”  Rachel smiles at him, squeezes his hand, and she’s not crying anymore.  “Just like that.”

Rachel lies down at some point and Bucky means to leave, but before he can actually go back to his bedroom, he nods off, sitting up against the headboard.

In the morning, he wakes up when Rachel does, and something’s shifted in his chest.  He’s a little more Bucky Barnes then he was when he fell asleep.  His sister loved candied walnuts and stories and it makes sense to him, that she would’ve loved Rachel too.

He was a little bit married once, is a little bit married still, and he’s going to stay right here, in this Brooklyn apartment, until something makes him leave.  He’s sticking around this time, and maybe tomorrow when he wakes up, he’ll be a little more Bucky Barnes than he is today.

* * *

 

“Rachel?” he says over breakfast. Steve’s gonna call any minute - assuming he’s not off blowing up Hydra bases this fine morning - and Bucky wants Rachel to tell him something because Bucky is not up for speaking himself yet.

“Yes?”

“I ain’t going anywhere.”

Rachel looks up from the paper, setting down her magnifying glass.  Her hand inches closer to his where it rests on the table, and Bucky really needs to abolish rule two, but that’s a different conversation.

He closes the space between them and takes her hand.

“I’ve kinda been thinking about leaving, since I got here,” he admits.

Rachel does not look surprised. She nods at him to continue.

“But, if you’ll have me, I want this to be my home, too,” he whispers, looking down at his plate of food.  

Rachel’s breath hitches and he’s sure that he’d see tears in her eyes if he looked up, but he reminds himself that it’s okay.  She’s crying because she’s happy and relieved, not because he’s about to rip her throat out on Hydra’s orders.

“Of course I’ll have you.”

“Then I promise to stay,” he says.  “And if I have to leave, I’ll tell you why and we’ll talk about it.  But I promise not to just disappear.”

“Good,” she says, her grip going as tight as she can manage it on his hand.  Which is to say not all that tight, seeing as she’s old and frail.

“You can tell Steve, okay?” Bucky swallows and glances up at her from behind a veil of his lank hair.  As expected, there are those goddamn tears, but she’s also smiling, warm and happy.  “When he calls.  You can tell him I promised.”

“He’ll like that a lot.”

Bucky takes a deep breath.  “I know. This is my home now, and I ain’t going anywhere.  Promise.”

* * *

 

**1935**

Bucky does a tune up on the truck himself, hours before he’s supposed to be at Steve’s to move him out of the old place.  He’s really careful, checking everything from tires to engine.  When he’s done, he has a cup of coffee, chats with the fellas going out on the morning pickups, and then checks the whole truck again.

It’s dumb. The truck’s fine. This whole day is gonna go _fine,_ but he’s gotta check the truck a couple times anyway.

He’s got hours to kill anyway, as he woke up long before the sun came up and still has hours more before he promised he’d have the truck at Steve’s.

He’s under the truck, checking transmission for the third time, when a pair of familiar boots appears near his head.  Using the heels of his feet, he pushes back and slides on the creepier out from under the truck to better stare up at the fella those boots are attached to.

“Good morning, Tateh,” he greets, accepting a hand up when his father offers.  Once on his feet he wipes off his hands on his overalls, even if it's a pretty damn ineffective move with all the grease already on said overalls.

“Bucky.” Tateh crosses his arms over his chest and surveying him from head to toe.  “You’re here early.”

“Yeah, well.”  Bucky rubs his hands together and doesn’t want to admit that he’s a nervous wreck about Steve moving in, that in the middle of the night he woke up from a dream where the truck broke down mid-move and Steve took as a sign from the goddamn universe that moving into the Barnes place is the wrong call.

It’s just so _dumb._ The whole day is gonna go _fine_.

“This is our newest truck,” Tateh says.

“Yeah, well.”

If he was talking to his mother, she’d smack at the back of his head - she can barely reach it these days - and demand he speak like the gentleman she raised him to be.  But his tateh just cracks a hint of a smile.

“I know he’s having a hard time,” Tateh says.

“Yeah.”  Bucky signs and wrings his hands. “Well.”

“For someone like Steve, it must be so hard to feel like a burden to the people who care you.  We won’t make him feel that way.  You just need to get him to the house.”

Bucky swallows, looks at his feet, and nods.

Tateh claps him on the shoulder and starts to roll up his sleeves. “I’ll take a look, see if you missed anything.”

They both know that Bucky don’t _miss_ things, but he appreciates the gesture just the same.

* * *

 

Uncle Tommy comes along to help with the heavy lifting.  Bucky was hoping for Kieran or Abel or at the very least Corman, but Tommy's the youngest of Bucky's uncles and is always forced to take the jobs no one else wants.  Not that helping Steve move is much of a job.  Tommy's only getting paid in dinner.

All his other uncles are older than even his ma and not all that interested in Bucky's life, so long as it doesn't involve teaching him how to throw a punch or shoot a revolver.  Tommy's closer to Bucky's age than he is to his brothers and goes through phases where he wants to hang out with Bucky and Steve, like they're _pals_.

Going out drinking with Tommy never fails to end in disaster.  He's a bit like Steve, quick to anger and always ready to throw himself into a fight.  But, unlike Steve who just happens to stumble upon injustice constantly and can't let it go, Tommy fights because he wants to hurt people, because he's good at it, because someone insults his pride or looks at him wrong while he's drunk and restless.

Still, he's strong enough to make the moving go quick and he lets Bucky drive the truck.

"You gotta put that out around Steve," Bucky says as Tommy lights up his third cigarette.

"Your boy-o will be fine.  It's just a bit of smoke."

"He'll cough."

"So?  It'll be good for him. Toughen him up a little."

"Just put it out, okay?"

Tommy mutters something undoubtedly rude but when they get to Steve's he stomps out his cigarette, rolling his eyes but keeping his big mouth shut.

Steve doesn't have much, just a couple crates and a couple bags.  The only big items are the mattress and bed frame, Sarah’s old bed.  Bucky's already cleared a spot for it in his room, close to his own bed.

Tommy, for the first time in his life, seems to understand that this is a sad, morbid affair, and he stays quiet after he claps Steve on his shoulder, saying, "Your ma was the best of them.  She'll be sorely missed."

They work quickly and quietly after that. The only sounds come from Steve, as he wheezes his way up the stairs, taking more trips than he fucking needs to since Tommy’s helping them out.

With the apartment empty except for a few pieces of old furniture that are staying put, Tommy excuses himself to wait in the truck and shuts the door quietly behind him.

Steve stands in the living room, staring intently at his shoes and taking deep, measured breaths.

"Hey, pal," Bucky says, hovering just behind him.  He fists his hands at his sides to keep himself from reaching out.  "You need a minute?"

"Yeah," says Steve.

Bucky fully intents to wait in the truck with Tommy, but then Steve grabs his elbow, pulling him closer until Steve's pressed into Bucky's chest.  He wraps his arms around Steve's waist, wincing a little when Steve's fingers dig into his ribs.

They stand like that for a long time, Steve hiding against Bucky's shoulder, Bucky swaying gently, until Steve's breathing evens out and he steps away.

"Okay," he says.

* * *

 

By the time they unload Steve’s meager belongings - his clothes getting squished into Bucky’s closet, his bed set up next to Bucky's, the rest of his ma’s stuff all in storage in the attic even though Bucky’s ma said Steve could hang up Sarah’s art if he wanted - it's dinner time.  There’s been a chair at the table for Steve since they moved here when Bucky was twelve, so it feels like any other night, but Bucky keeps reminding himself that Steve’s not gonna go off to Brooklyn Heights at the end of it because he lives here now.  

Rebecca complains about her teacher who’s been giving her easy books to read instead of the more advanced stuff the boys in her grade are doing.  The twins prattle on about some nonsense.  Winnie ask questions.  Tateh nods and smiles and stays silent.  Steve cleans his plate but refuses seconds.

Bucky keeps bouncing his leg under the table, full of nervous energy, even though he’s got nothing left to worry about.  Steve’s here.  Steve’s not going anywhere.  Bucky can look after him and makes sure he’s got three squares a day and is surrounded by people who care about him.

It’s _fine_.

After dinner, Winnie tells Steve it's his night to do the dishes and some of that tension eases out of Steve’s shoulders.  Bucky could kiss his ma right here at the table.  She’s making good on what Tateh promised him this morning, to keep Steve from feeling like a burden.  She’s treating Steve like she treats all the kids, expecting chores outta him, knowing full well if she tried to coddle him, tried to treat him like a guest, he’d be out that door and probably living on the streets.

After the dishes, Steve asks to talk to Bucky’s parents on his own.  Steve shoos Bucky away and when Bucky continues to loiter, his ma shoos him away some more.

He really plans on going on up to his room, maybe reading a pulp until Steve’s done, but then he nearly trips over Rebecca, sitting on the third step.

“What the-- _Beck_!”

“Shut _up_!” She yanks on his pant leg until Bucky gives in and kneels down next to her.

“What’re we doing?” he whispers.

“What does it look like, you big dope?”

“Eavesdropping is rude, Rebecca”

“ _So_?” Beck replies, covering his mouth with her palm.  “Listen.”

So he sits huddled on the stairs with his little sister, uneasy at first when Steve starts quietly and earnestly thanking his parents for taking him in.  His father murmurs something and he can’t here that, even though he does hear Steve’s deep breathing, wet, maybe from tears or maybe from his lungs.

Before anyone can get sappy, Steve starts talking about specifics.  He tries to insist on paying rent, and Ma turns him down, flat.  He really, really insists on paying for food, and Ma only agrees to this when Steve agrees to work a couple days a week in the office at the company.  When his ma asks about keeping up with the art classes, Steve hesitates, but Winnifred Buchanan Barnes can be quite persuasive when she sets her mind to something, and Steve might be the second most stubborn person to ever walk god’s green earth, but Bucky’s ma has that number one position locked down.

“Fine.” Steve sighs, sounding like this is a huge concession on his part instead of his passion and his heart and what he wants to do with his life.  Beck glances over her shoulder at Bucky, rolling her eyes.  “But I’m gonna go into more commercial art, take typography or something so I can start sign painting professionally.”

“My dear boy,” says Ma.  “That’s entirely up to you.”

Bucky lets out a great, big breath.  This is gonna work.  Steve’s gonna give his parents grocery money, but not rent.  He’s gonna keep taking art classes and start working for the company.  Steve’s gonna be _fine_.

There is still no reason for this anxious feeling, still squirming around in his gut just like it was this morning, when he still thought there was only a fifty-fifty chance of actually getting Steve to come home with him.

“He’s gonna stay,” Beck whispers, shaking Bucky’s shoulder and grinning.  “He’s gonna live here for real.  It’s gonna be great. You can stop fussing like the bubbe you were always born to be.”

“I’m not fussing.  I don’t fuss.”

“You do to!”

They both shut right up when they hear Steve’s footsteps in the hall, scrambling to stand up and sprint up the stairs to avoid getting caught eavesdropping. Beck’s giggles probably give them away.  Bucky tickles her as they run towards their rooms.

Steve comes in only a second after Bucky, rolling his eyes and shaking his head a little.

* * *

 

The day is a success.  Steve's here, safe and sound in the Barnes home.  He's worked out an agreement with Bucky's parents. Steve will keep making art and Bucky will know he's got three square meals and a roof over his head, somewhere safe to come back to at the end of the day.  He'll be surrounded by people who miss his mother fiercely and care about his well being.

It’s _fine_.

Currently, Steve’s asleep on his bed just a few feet away, and, after the success of the day, there's no damn reason for Bucky to be so damn restless.

It's over.  Steve's here.  For once, Bucky's won.  He can finally relax.

Except he's not relaxed.  He can't sleep.  He's been staring at the ceiling for the last hour, despite needing to get up early for a shift at the garage.  If he wasn't so worried about passing his insomnia on to Steve, he'd be tossing and turning.

Instead of trying in vain to get more comfortable, he's been counting Steve's breaths like his ma taught him to count sheep.  Even when he's resting, Steve wheezes a little, and the noise is familiar, soothing, but Bucky still can't sleep.

Every night since the funeral, he's slept at Steve's, not on the cushions on the floor like he would've done before Sarah died, but actually in Steve's bed, close enough to touch him.  On particularly good mornings, they’ve woken up actually touching.  It's not like Bucky got used to sleeping that way in just a handful of days, but he's certain that he'd be sleeping soundly right now, if Steve were in bed with him.

"Buck?"

For one moment, Bucky thinks it’s his own tired mind, hallucinating Steve saying his name. But Steve’s head pops up from his pillow to look at Bucky in the dark, as awake as he is apparently.  He's rustling around in his blankets.

"You up?" he asks.

Bucky clears his throat.  "Yeah, Stevie. I'm up. Can't sleep?"

Steve doesn't say anything and Bucky holds his breath for another moment until Steve slips out of his own bed and into Bucky's.

"Hey, hey," Bucky murmurs as Steve chokes back a whimper and presses his face into Bucky's neck.  His cheeks are already wet with tears.  "I've got you, buddy.  Just let it on out.  I've got you."

So Steve cries all over Bucky, like he hasn't since the day of the funeral. Bucky sheds a tear or two himself and when Steve kisses him, Bucky groans into it.  He pulls on Bucky's shoulder, tugging and rearranging them until Bucky's laid out on top of Steve, Steve's legs wrapped around his waist.

And when Steve gets a hand down his pants, Bucky gasps and tells himself that it's not selfish, so long as Steve wants it.  It's not taking advantage, so long as Steve kisses him first.

* * *

 

In the morning, Bucky doesn’t want to wake Steve.  He’s curled up on his side, facing Bucky, his back to the wall.  They don’t touch anywhere except for Steve’s hand resting on Bucky’s stomach.  

The last month has aged Steve, the way he holds his mouth and the hard look in his eye making him seem years away from seventeen. But he’s all smoothed out and young as he sleeps, at peace for the first time since Sarah died.

Bucky absolutely does not want to wake him, but the whole house will be up in a matter of hours and it’s more important than ever that no one catches Steve in Bucky’s bed.

They didn’t even throw the goddamn lock last night.  It’s so damn stupid that Bucky can’t even think about it too hard.

And even the sight of Steve, sleeping peacefully next to Bucky, is not enough to loosen that ball of anxiety that’s been churning in his gut since he got Steve to agree to move in here. A part of him is still terrified that he’ll come home from work to find all Steve’s stuff gone and Steve along with it.

“Hey, pal,” Bucky whispers.  He squeezes Steve’s hand a little, but that only gets Steve to scoot closer, pressing his face into Bucky’s side.

Bucky grins, giving himself a moment to be weak and soft.  He runs his fingers through Steve’s hair and stops just short of kissing his temple.

“Steve, come on.” Bucky shakes his shoulder and Steve’s eyes finally blink open.  He squints and glares.  Bucky bites the side of his mouth to keep himself from laughing.  Steve sure does look dopey first thing in the morning.  “I gotta go.”

Steve huffs and then turns away, burying his face in his pillow. “So go already.”

“You think maybe you should get in your own bed?”

With great drama and too much noise for this early in the morning, Steve groans. Bucky shakes his shoulder some more, laughing at him for real this time, and Steve pushes back for a minute, but he’s too sleepy for a proper wrestling match.

“Getta a move on, jerk,” Steve mutters, poking Bucky in the ribs until he gets out of bed.  Bucky watches and laughs as Steve drags himself out of Bucky’s bed, not even standing fully upright as he walks across the couple feet to collapse on his own.

He seems to fall back to sleep instantly, and Bucky gets ready for the day as quietly as possible, retreating to the bathroom to get changed.  Downstairs, he can hear his mother in the kitchen, ready to send her husband and her son off early to make sure all the morning deliveries get out on time and to deal with any last minute truck repairs.  She’ll be in the office herself in another couple hours, after she sees the rest of the kids off to school.

He refuses to think about what she’d say, if she knew what Bucky and Steve were getting up to in her own home, long after the rest of the family’s sleeping.

Bucky’s definitely gonna remember the lock next time.

Assuming there is a next time.

He really wants there to be a next time.

Bucky slips back into his room to get his hat and wallet, tiptoeing around.  It’s a useless effort because when he glances at Steve, Steve’s starting back at him, bright blue eyes clearer than they were a minute ago.

“What’s your day looking like?” Steve asks.

“I got a shift in the garage this morning and then I’m in the office all afternoon,” Bucky buttons up his shirt.  He’ll change into his greasy jumpsuit once he gets to the garage.

“I’ll see you then.  Your ma’s training me on office stuff today.”

“Good.”  Bucky nods and stuffs his hands into his pockets.  He needs to leave.  Tateh does not tolerate lateness and will not hesitate to dock Bucky’s pay, but that knot in his stomach is still there, telling him that if he stops looking at Steve he’ll just disappear.

Steve must see it on Bucky’s face, because he frowns and sits up on his elbows.  The change in position ain’t great for his back but Bucky doesn’t say shit about it, because Steve has less tolerance for coddling that his father has for lateness.

“I ain’t going anywhere,” Steve says.  “You know that, right?”

“Yeah.” Bucky shrugs. “ _Well_.”

“This is my home now,” Steve says, grimacing like it's a particularly tough pill to swallow. “And I ain’t going anywhere. Promise.”

That does it.  The knot dissolves into nothing, leaving Bucky dizzy and relieved. Steve’s a stubborn, prideful little idiot, and too willing sacrifice himself to stick up for everyone else, but he doesn’t lie.  If Steve says he’s gonna stay, then he will absolutely stay.

It really is gonna be fine.

Bucky grins at Steve, and leans down to ruffle his soft hair.  “You better not, punk.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve grumbles, smacking Bucky’s hands away.  “Get outta here, jerk.  George’s gonna dock your pay if you ain’t careful. I’ll see you at the office.”

Bucky leaves his room with a bounce in his step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Di and AJ are amazing, beautiful, angelic betas who have worked hard to make this story so much cleaner and better. I love them and cannot thank them enough.
> 
> NaNoWriMo was a struggle this year, y'all. What with the election and some personal stuff, the quality of what I got written was not what I was hoping for. The whole thing is a big mess and needs a lot of rewriting, so it's going to take me some time to slug through it.
> 
> In the mean time, come cry with me about James Buchanan Barnes on [Tumblr!](http://jaxington.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I hope you all have a great holiday season and a lovely new year. Thank you so much for reading and I'll get the next chapter posted in 2017 HOLY SHIT WHEN DID THAT HAPPEN???


	3. Chapter 3

The day starts at 0830. That’s when Rachel gets outta bed. 

Some mornings, he can hear her tossing and turning hours before that, shuffling around in her room, but she doesn’t get ready for the day until her alarm clock goes off. After six weeks of staying at the apartment Bucky is much better at sleeping a reasonable length of time at a reasonable time of night, so he matches his schedule to Rachel’s.

The day starts at 0830. That’s the routine.

Routine, Rachel says, is important when you’re a million years old because it helps you take your pills at the right time. It also helps you remember what you’re supposed to be doing at any given time of day, when your brain holds memories like a sieve. She might forget what she’s doing in the middle of doing it, but she can glance at a clock and be almost certain she ate breakfast and read the paper and took her pills.

Except for the pills, these reasons to follow a routine apply to the both of them, so Bucky gets up at 0830. He hears Rachel’s alarm sound from down the hall, his own going off exactly forty-eight seconds later, and gets out of bed.

He’s got his own private bathroom, where he always goes straight after getting up. The only way to it is through Bucky’s room, and after a lifetime sharing a toilet with an entire floor of tenants, or an entire barracks of soldiers (and then several lifetimes of having nothing of his own) the space is still a novelty. He keeps it meticulously clean, always wiping the sink down after using it. On ambitious mornings, he shaves. 

Today, he just manages to brush his teeth.

Rachel taught him about teeth-brushing, just like she taught him to pull his hair back in a elastic tie. He likes running his tongue over his freshly cleaned teeth so much that he brushes them after every meal.

Mouth clean, it’s time to stare at himself in the mirror and poke at the memories that flitted into his head while he was dreaming.

It’s still coming back to him, more easily when he sleeps. Sometimes, he’ll get flashes during the day, triggered by Rachel saying something she's said before or food she's fed him before or nothing at all. Mostly he just wakes up in the morning remembering things like he never forgot them. It's not just images or a movie reel playing behind his eyes. He remembers context, feelings, reactions.

This morning, he wakes knowing that his little sister refused to wear dresses (which Bucky thought was awesome) and was always carrying around whatever book she was reading, even to Dodgers games and Mass and dance halls (which Bucky thought was ridiculous, in an endearing sorta way).

Bucky smiles to himself, studying his reflection in the mirror. He looks okay with a smile. Not so much like he should’ve died decades ago when he fell off the side of a train.

The dresser is next, for socks. The flannel shirt he favors for sleeping gets folded and placed in the top drawer, along with Steve’s things. In the closet he pulls on layers of clothes, selecting the new ones Rachel ordered if he’s feeling vain or the old ones of Steve left behind if he’s feeling fragile.

Today, it’s Steve’s sweatpants, a Captain America t-shirt that makes Bucky snicker whenever he sees it, and a nicer, newer flannel from Frankie Barnes.

When he’s ready for the day - at 0845, right on schedule - he goes to the hall and listens intently outside Rachel’s bedroom. From the sound of things, she’s having a good day. Sometimes, she’ll say his name and he’ll help her outta bed.

A moment later, the door creaks open, and Rachel’s beaming up at him, leaning on her cane.  

“Good morning, James Buchanan,” she says, crooking her fingers at him. It’s her little sign, that she wants him to lean down so she can kiss his cheek.

He leans down so she can kiss his cheek and says, “You sure look swell this morning, doll.”

Rachel laughs, tucking his hand in his arm when he offers. “Oh stop that. You’ll make an old lady blush.”

“Did I used to blush?” he asks as they make slow progress towards the kitchen.

“What do you think?”

“No,” Bucky says. Like usual, he’s got no fucking idea how he knows this, no memory to provide evidence to the fact that he wasn’t one to go blushing all over the place, but he feels it in his gut.

“Steve coaxed a blush outta you, a time or two. But no. He was the blusher in the relationship, from his ears to his chest.”

“I used to make him blush on purpose.”

Rachel laughs some more and a memory echoes in his mind, of Rachel throwing her head back and laughing again and again, in bars and restaurants. In parks and on subway cars. In a dumpy apartment, where she sat on a threadbare couch with her feet in Steve’s lap.

“Of course you did, tateleh.” She pats his arm as they get into the kitchen and she makes a grab for the coffee pot, but Bucky sits her down at the table and does it himself.

Before Bucky appeared on her goddamn balcony, Rachel made the coffee herself. That was her routine. She’d take it outside and wait for Mia to come up, delivering Rachel breakfast and pills.  Bucky does it all now and Mia is not allowed in the apartment. No one is allowed in the apartment. Just Rachel and Bucky.

While the coffee brews, Bucky runs out to the hall to get Rachel her paper. As she gets settled with the Style section and her magnifying glass, Bucky surveys the contents of the fridge, stuffed full of everything from the grocery delivery yesterday afternoon. At 0900 he’ll start breakfast and he’s feeling like trying something new today.

Last week, he wanted a pastrami sandwich for breakfast and halfway through putting it all together, he realized with great horror that pastrami is not breakfast food. Rachel dismissed his distress with a shrug. “We’ve never been particularly traditional around here. Now give me my sandwich.”

Bucky rummages through the drawers. “Can you put gravlax on a bagel?”

“Absolutely.”

“That’s what you say to everything.” Bucky rolls his eyes. He puts the cured salmon on the counter anyway. “Is that how you’re supposed to eat it?”

“Darling, how many times must I tell you, there is no  _ supposed _ to. We can do whatever we want with the gravlax.”

The coffee pot gurgles, and Bucky pours Rachel a mug, adding disgusting amount of milk and setting it on the table in front of her.

“But this is not how it's usually eaten,” he insists.

“I’ve mostly seen it as an appetizer,” Rachel admits. She wraps her hands around the mug, the heat helping with her arthritis. “But it’ll be great on a schmear. It’s basically lox.”

So Bucky gets out the bagels and the cream cheese, while Rachel tells him a story about Beck’s quest for the perfect bagel, that somehow took the pair of them an entire month to find back in the 70s.

Rachel’s phone rings, like it does most mornings, just as Bucky’s getting the finishing touches on their breakfast. Bucky winces, turning towards the counter to hide his face while Rachel digs the thing out of her pocket and turns on the speakerphone. 

“Good morning, bubbleh,” Rachel says and Bucky holds his breath, desperate to hear that voice and dreading it at the same time.

“Hey.” Steve sounds distracted this morning. Bucky wants to know why, but he won’t ask. “How is he? Is he there?”

“Yes, yes.” Rachel huffs. “He’s making bagel and a schmear with gravlax.”

“With what?”

“Nothing, you ridiculous, ignorant goy. How are you? Have you been sleeping? You sound tired.”

Steve chuckles and Bucky’s heart clenches. He wants to record that sound, wants to set Rachel’s ringtone so he’ll hear that sound every time Steve calls.  

“I slept fine,” Steve says. “How’d you sleep? How’d Bucky sleep?”

“I slept fine, thank you. Bucky, how’d you sleep? Was it an alright night?”

Bucky glowers at Rachel over his shoulder and shrugs.

“He slept fine,” Rachel says. 

Bucky drops a plate in front of her and then takes his seat. He’s got two bagels to Rachel’s one, and he takes a huge bite. The fennel flavor’s a little strange with the cream cheese but mostly it’s excellent. He’ll make it again.

While they eat, Rachel asks about Steve’s friend  _ Sam  _ but she lets Steve change the subject when Bucky gets huffy about it. He doesn’t know this  _ Sam,  _ and absolutely does not fucking trust him to have Steve’s back.

Admittedly, he doesn’t trust anyone with something so precious. Least of all himself. 

Steve asks about their plans for the day, and Rachel talks about knitting and some kids who live downstairs and tending the small vegetable garden on the roof. When Steve’s got to hang up, with a promise to call later in the day, Bucky refuses to get cranky about it.

* * *

When breakfast is over, Bucky gets up to do the dishes while Rachel supervises, rubbing her sore hands and reminding him four times that the pot can't go in the dishwasher.  

One, he didn't even use a goddamn pot to cook this morning and two, Bucky's never once used a dishwasher in his unnaturally long life. But he lets her fuss and promises to take excellent care of her cookware and only teases her a little, congratulating her on growing into the Jewish Grandmother she was born to be.

He washes their plates by hand, even when Rachel reminds him that those can actually go in the fucking dishwasher. When he’s done, he struggles to get the soap out of the grooves in his metal hand.  

“Thank you,” Rachel says when the kitchen is once more pristine. He nods, ready to help her stand, but Rachel shakes her head. “Not just for breakfast. For everything. For staying. For helping me stand and getting me my pills. Thank you.”

Bucky, decidedly not used to being thanked for a goddamn thing, blushes and stares at his feet.  

“You made me blush,” he whispers, but Rachel must not remember their conversation from this morning, because she keeps right on yammering about how Mia used to help her, before Bucky came home.

* * *

The kitchen gets cleaned after breakfast by 1030, 1100 at the latest, if Bucky decides to cook something overly elaborate. Then, it’s time for a morning activity.

Rachel’s been teaching him how to knit, a perfectly mindless hobby for when Bucky’s being chased by a Hydra memory, when he can’t stop thinking of death and blood and torture, when he can’t beat it back into the locked box in his head. Knitting is repetitive, but requires constant attention to keep his hands working in the right ways. So that’s a good option for an activity.

Sometimes, he’ll pick a book from Beck’s library and read it aloud to Rachel. He loses his words sometimes and forgets that he’s got a voice to use, so the reading is good speaking practice, but he’s only up to about half an hour before the tiny words make his head ache.

The internet is always a time-consuming venture, and he likes videos of sloths, but sometimes he gets carried away clicking and ends up somewhere he does not want to be. Sometimes, they do internet shopping. After extensive research, he purchased high quality pencils and pads of paper, plus other art supplies. He’s got a guitar on the way. For Rachel he bought new red nail polish, and he’s been practicing giving her manicures. All that, delivered right to their goddamn front door. The internet is good. He is a fan.

If Rachel wants to sit on the balcony and enjoy the sunshine, Bucky pulls on the skin sleeve and turns on the Nano mask to hide his face. Rachel’s been staying in the apartment more than she used to because Bucky can’t stand the thought of leaving it, so he sits with her sometimes, even though the mask is too itchy to use for more than an hour or two. It keeps them both from going too stir crazy.

Today, he ends up on the internet after breakfast, with Beck’s computer on his lap. Googling Steve Rogers is never a good idea, but he ends up on YouTube, watching a compilation of  _ The Craziest Shit Captain America Ever Did Caught on Camera. _

The title is misleading. Bucky’s positive Steve did much crazier shit during their war. There are flames in his head, and an impossible jump across them in a crumbling factory. He does not chase the memory.

The compilation does include grainy clips of Steve flinging himself at some fucking aliens, so maybe Bucky needs to give the title more credit for accuracy.

He starts huffing, supremely annoyed that Steve's hurling himself at danger for a goddamn living. He’s spent their youth trying his damnedest to keep Steve safe, only to have him charge in, all huge and ready to jump through fire to get Bucky out, getting shot at every ten seconds, wearing a uniform that was a glorified target for fuck’s sake.

That is a lot more of their war than he had a minute ago. He does not chase the memories.

"He's an idiot with zero sense of self preservation," Bucky says to Rachel, where she’s sitting in Beck’s rocking chair with a pile of yarn in her lap. He talks like they’re in the middle of a conversation instead partaking in their separate after-breakfast activities in total silence.

"True," says Rachel and her easy agreement is deeply satisfying. "But he's got a good heart.  And it's one of the many reasons why we love him."

Bucky nods, the tension in his shoulders unlocking slightly. Rachel says it easily, like it’s a given that Bucky loves Steve. Like Bucky's actually a person who's capable of such a thing. It shouldn’t be such a shock, since he still feels a little married to the guy, but it kinda is. Rachel thinks he loves Steve and he finds this assessment accurate, despite the way he can’t manage to speak to him or let him within fifty blocks of the apartment.

(Even Stark Tower feels a little too close, but Bucky certainly can’t stop Steve from going there.)

Love is an accurate name to give the confusing jumble of longing and fear and concern and devotion Bucky feels when he thinks about Steve Rogers aka The Lump aka Captain America.

“That’s what he’s off doing right now, right? Scouring the earth, tearing Hydra apart with his own goddamn hands. Because of what they did to me.”

Rachel winces a little. “I can’t exactly blame him.”

“But it’s not safe, Rach.”

“Bucky, he’s not been safe in a long time. That’s not your doing. There was a war on. And it never really ended for him.”

It’s not fair. The war finally ended for Bucky - or at least he’s taking a nice long break - when he showed up on Rachel’s balcony and decided to stay. Steve does not have the same option because Bucky won’t let him.

If Bucky gave the go-ahead, Steve would be right here in this apartment the moment he could manage it. If Bucky could think about Steve without risking a crippling fucking headache, then Steve would be safe. Steve would be here, instead of throwing himself into the same bloody fight he's been throwing himself into for decades.

“Uh-oh,” Rachel says, frowning at him.

“I’m fine,” Buck argues, although it’s futile. He’s lost the ability to control his face. If he ever even had that ability in the first place. Maybe that’s why they put him in the muzzle, his overly expressive goddamn James Buchanan Barnes Face.

In any case, Rachel knows him well enough to see when he’s working himself into a nice mope.

“Whatever you say,” Rachel replies. “Hey, what do you say we go somewhere?”

Bucky blinks at her, too shocked by this suggestion to fully sink into full on pouting mode. “Go somewhere?” he repeats. “As in leave the apartment?”

He has not left since he showed up, a month ago. Rachel leaves all the goddamn time, sometimes as her morning activity and sometime as the afternoon one. She goes out with people from the home and a couple other friends.

The current CEO of Frankie Barnes - a fella named Mel who lived with Rachel and Beck for awhile in the 80s when his parents kicked him out after he begged them to stop calling him by the girl name they gave him when he was born - takes her out every other Saturday. They go to temple at Brooklyn Heights Synagogue over on Remsen when Rachel’s feeling up for it. (It didn’t exist when Bucky lived here before, and they always went to Beth El in Borough Park with his bubbe on Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah).

Downstairs in the home, they have movie night every few weeks and Rachel usually attends.  On the very first day of summer vacation, she took the kids for ice cream.

Leaving is part of Rachel’s routine, but it sure as shit ain’t part of Bucky’s.

“You could use some fresh air, James Buchanan,” Rachel says. “A nice trip to the park might do you wonders. But if you’re not feeling up for it, we could go sit on the roof.”

It’s always a choice with Rachel, never an order or a command.

He stares at her and she frowns at him, opening her mouth like she’s about to take back the suggestion and call the whole thing a crummy idea.

“We’ll go after lunch,” Bucky says before Rachel can speak. “But we gotta be back for our naps.  It can be the afternoon activity.”

“Of course. Gotta stick to that routine.”

* * *

The first test for Bucky in The World Outside happens before they even leave the block.

After they emerge from the elevator, Bucky helps Rachel sit in her wheelchair on the sidewalk. Just as they’re ready to set off, the woman Bucky spied on when he was camped out across the street is approaching the front steps, her arms laden with shopping bags. She’s talking to a frowning teenager with a shaved head and a scowl.

"There you are," she says the woman when she spots Rachel. "It's been so long since I saw you out of the apartment, I was starting to get worried."

Bucky winces. He'll need to make Rachel leave the apartment more often if he wants to avoid suspicion.

"Hello, Mia, my dear," Rachel says before turning towards the teenager. "Hello, Tammy."

"It's just  _ Tam _ now," hisses the teenager, hands curled into fists. Tam’s very tiny, probably not a threat.

The gun tucked into his waistband and the knives in his pockets are a heavy weight. He doesn't want to use them, but couldn’t bring himself to leave the apartment unarmed. It’s some consolation that he probably won’t have to use them on the tiny blond ball of fury before him. 

Tam reminds him of another tiny blond ball of fury, one that somehow super-soldiered himself into a big ball of fury.

"Tam,” Rachel repeats, looking horrified. “Did you tell me this already? Did I forget?”

The kid abruptly loses all traces of fury and righteous indignation, suddenly looking rather horrified as well. “No! Sorry. Shit. I didn’t tell you yet. Don’t worry, you didn’t forget. And it’s, uh, them and they pronouns, okay? It’s okay if you can’t remember. I know you can’t help it.”

Rachel nods and visibly relaxes, but Bucky doesn’t. This is his first challenge in The World Outside and he’s got no fucking clue what’s going on here and he doesn’t like it.

“Thank you for telling me,” Rachel says. “And I’ll do my damndest not to forget, but this mind of mine is a bit of a crap shoot.”

“How am I supposed to get them not to curse when you’re saying things like crap shoot?” Mia asks, sighing.

"You’ll find a way, I’m sure, my dear. How have you both been?”

“I’m good,” Tam replies, smiling a little.

“We were just doing some back to school shopping,” Mia says. “Got some pretty nice stuff, right, Tam?”

“Yeah, it was cool,” Tam mutters, but the kid is focused on Bucky now. Tam’s all big dark eyes, and Bucky’s thankful they’re not blue because he’s having enough flashbacks of pulling Steve outta fights as it is, between the scrawniness and the attitude. "Who are you?"

Tam looks Bucky up and down. He catalogs the top five most efficient ways to kill the kid and then makes himself  _ not do that, goddamn it _ . His stomach rolls a little, but he beats it back and tries to smile, tries to introduce himself like a normal goddamn person.

He deeply laments his failure to concoct a reasonable cover story to explain his presence at Rachel’s side when they were still in the apartment. This is the sorta shit that he’d never do, when he was actively getting his fucking mind erased and running around as the goddamn Winter Soldier.

(Hydra, awful as they were, was all about planning for the contingencies. The only one they couldn’t predict was Steve fucking Rogers.)

"This is Bob," says Rachel, easy as anything while Bucky’s still silently panicking. "He's staying with me for awhile, isn't that right, darling?"

Bucky blinks down at Rachel and then nods at Tam and Mia. "Hi," he manages.

"He knew Beck from NYU decades ago, and needed somewhere quiet to write a novel,” Rachel continues. And even he, with all his super spy training, would have a hard time spotting the lie.  She just speaks with so much ease and confidence. “So he’s staying in the spare room and as his rent he’s been helping out around the house and occasionally taking me to the park. Right, Bob?"

"Sure," says Bucky, suddenly remembering Rachel's innate ability to make shit up on the spot.  She would've made a good spy.

"Bob, this is Mia and Tam."

"Hi, Mia and Tam."

"Well," says Rachel and he can tell from the tone of her voice that she's ready to go. He slowly starts to pulls her wheelchair backwards down the sidewalk. "Bob's taking a writing break and he's promised me we're going to park. You two enjoy your afternoon. I’m glad you’re all ready for school, Tam. And I won’t forget."

Mia and Tam wave. Rachel waves back. Bucky attempts to smile at them before turning Rachel around in the other direction and setting off at the fastest possible pace that still avoids looking like he's fleeing the scene.

“Are you gonna tell me what the hell all that was about? What won’t you forget?”

“I’ll tell you. It’s a long walk to the park. I hope you don’t mind I gave you a fake name.”

"Bob?" he mutters.

"Wow, that sure was fun," replies Rachel.

"I forgot about that lying thing you do."

"It's called acting, boychick. And I'm damn good at it."

* * *

They’re back from the park in time for afternoon naps. And then it’s television, dinner, a phone call with Steve, and a movie, in bed by 2300 hours.

It’s a good routine, even with the unexpected addition of a trip outside.

Bucky’s not gonna fall over himself trying to do that again any time soon.

* * *

Steve’s back in DC.

Bucky knows this, because Rachel watches a lot of television. 

“The thing about being old,” Rachel says, after Bucky points out that she watches a lot of television, “Is that there’s nothing to do. My joints hurt too much to sew. Walking is hard. My wife’s dead. Reading hasn’t got anymore interesting since 1939. What, I’m supposed to just sit here in silence?”

So Bucky also watches a lot of television, because he’d rather be around Rachel than on his own somewhere else in the massive apartment. Rachel keeps the volume low because the sound gives them both headaches, but Bucky turns it up when Steve comes on the news.

And he turned on the news specifically today, because Steve’s back in DC to answer another thousand and one goddamn questions on what the fuck happened over the Potomac at the beginning of the summer.

Everyone wants to know everything about Hydra. And on C-SPAN, Steve looks so tired.

Bucky tells Rachel so and murmurs, “He’s all on his own, huh?”

“He’s got friends.” Rachel sighs. “But you’re right. He looks tired.”

Bucky lets out an entirely disapproving growl, somewhat against his will.

“Maybe we could send him a picture of that jar of pickles we made today,” Rachel says. She always likes to use Bucky as substitute hands during their daily activities. She talks him through things she can’t do anymore, like using the sewing machine or baking bread.

Picking onions, peppers, and cucumbers was today’s morning activity, like watching Steve get grilled by the Senate is the afternoon activity.

Bucky knows he can make his own decisions now, have his own wants, but he likes Rachel telling him how to make pickles or teaching him how to knit. He follows her instructions because he wants to learn and Rachel knows a lot.

Left to his own devices, Bucky’s not sure what he’d do with himself all damn day It’s almost a relief to have orders to follow, when he can trust Rachel not to have him off assassinating democratically elected officials in South American countries.

Plus, when Rachel doesn’t have an activity to focus on, she gets confused. Her mind wanders.  Once, she forgot Beck’s dead, and that was awful.

Together, they stay busy, they stay sharp. 

Today, they made pickles and the jars look nice, even if they won’t be ready to eat for a good long while. 

“Think a picture would cheer him up?” Bucky asks as the camera pans to another shot of Steve sitting in front of a board of senators, looking serious and wan.

Still the most absurdly beautiful thing Bucky’s ever seen, though.

“Look at that suit.” Rachel whistles through her teeth. “Bless Tony Stark and whoever’s tailoring Steve’s suits. They fit perfectly. Couldn’t do a better job myself, not even with my hands cooperating.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but can’t help admire the breadth of Steve’s shoulders under his grey jacket.

“Rachel, you think a picture would cheer him up?”

“Huh?” Rachel tears her eyes away from the television. She does that sometimes, gets distracted and can’t focus on one conversation without reminders.

Bucky’s like that, too. They’re a good match. 

“Should I send him a picture of our pickles, Rach?”

“Oh,  _ yes _ . Anything that lets him know he’s got people who care about him, not because he’s Captain America but because he’s  _ Steve _ , that’s a good thing.”

Bucky spends twenty minutes framing the shot of the jars until it looks like something artsy enough to please Steve’s rather picky eye. The afternoon light is spilling in through the windows in the kitchen, and the curtains are a pretty backdrop. It’s a nice picture. He texts Steve the photo and then writes up a message.

_ He learned how to pickle today. Not quite up for a trip to the lower east side for the authentic Jewish versions, but these should do nicely. _

He hands the phone over to Rachel. She pushes her glasses up higher on her nose and frowns as she reads.

“Good,” she says, nodding. “You’re not saying your name?”

“No,” he whispers. He doesn’t want to scare Rachel with his paranoid fear that someone will hack her phone, see the name  _ Bucky _ , and come for him. The context clues are there, for anyone bothering to pay attention, but he’s not gonna spell it out.

“Okay. It’s good. Send it to him. Oh, look at Steve wear that suit. Tony Stark’s got one helluva tailor. Could give me a run for my money on a good day.”

Bucky takes a deep breath and hits send.

It becomes a daily occurrence, a critical part of their routine. Rachel talks Bucky through some productive activity, Bucky takes about forty pictures of the finished result before getting one perfect enough for Steve.

Rachel takes over writing up the corresponding messages, after Bucky spends two hours staring at a blank text message and he ends up counting his breaths under the kitchen table. Even writing to Steve’s too much, but Rachel says that’s okay. She always knows just what to say anyway.

C _ ooking our way through my Ma's cookbook. Did I ever tell you I saw my mother a few times there before she died?  Well I did and it was terrible, but she didn’t try to force me into marrying a nice Jewish boy and she gave me her cookbook, so not the worst way to end things I suppose. Got a nice Jewish boy living with me now! _

_ We’re practicing our knitting. Today he requested red, white, and blue yarn and won't stop snickering about it. _

_ We have decided to have a fire every night this winter. He cleaned out the flue for me today, and got the logs going on the first try. He is sitting in Beck’s chair, slightly too close to the flames to be safe but I think he likes the heat. He mentioned how important it is for you to stay warm when the weather gets cold, Steve. _

_ Today we watched YouTube videos of people doing the lindy hop. We pushed back the chairs in the living room and attempted something less vigorous ourselves. _

_ We remembered Zelda and then both got sad. She died, did you know? Ages ago. It was a quiet day. _

_ We walked all the way to the library. He wanted to check out every book on Captain America but I talked him out of it. _

_ We braided his hair today. Sadly, he has forbidden me from sending any pictures. _

Steve always replies right away, with funny little cartoon smiling faces or his own pictures or just funny little quips. He tends to scribble nonsense shapes in the margins of whatever serious government file he’s reading through. Sometimes he and Rachel text back and forth for awhile afterwards. Sometimes Rachel laughs out loud.

When he can manage to call at night - which he does most days - Steve asks for details on whatever activity they sent him during the day.

These are good days.

* * *

The routine is good, stabilizing, comforting, but Rachel says it’s also important to have goals.  Small things that he can accomplish in an hour or a day and big, long term ones, too.

On mornings when he wakes up shaky, barely able to keep his Hydra memories locked away in their mental box, his goals are simple. Get out of bed. Shower. Eat. He takes it one minute at a time and lets himself feel proud to just keep on breathing through it.

On days when he’s feeling particularly James Buchanan Barnes, when he flirts with Rachel just to make her laugh and actually considers responding when Steve calls, he’s got the energy to focus on the bigger goals. Facing down the World Outside remains a big one, and he’s trying to make trips outside a monthly occurrence, maybe even weekly, if he can handle it. Beyond that, he wants to learn how to play guitar and remember how to play piano. He wants to fill in the timeline drawn out on Beck’s white board. He wants to feel stable enough with his own memories to talk to Steve, maybe even to see him soon.

He wants to fill in the blanks in his own head with what his sister remembered of their childhood.  He wants to read her book, the latest one all about Steve and Bucky and Brooklyn and Captain fucking America. 

It’s Steve that first mentions the book at the end of summer. He’s got plans to be in Manhattan for some charity gala before heading back on the road to keep Hydra Hunting, and he asks for permission to let Tony Stark (there are stormy memories around the name Stark, that make Bucky’s skin crawl and his stomach roll) send someone to pick up the manuscript.

“I just wanted to read it again,” Steve says. And his voice is measured but Bucky remembers enough about Steve Rogers to know when he’s covering up his hurts to sound strong for everyone else.

Bucky opens his mouth and almost says, “ _ What’s wrong _ ?” But he can’t. He closes his mouth without speaking. Maybe next week he will ask. Talking to Steve might be his biggest, most important goal, but it’s also the most daunting.

“You don’t have your copy?” Rachel asks.

“No, I think I left it in Beck’s office last time I was there.”

“You want the ready to publish version or what?”

“Yeah,” Steve replies. “The full unabridged one is too big to lug around with me on the road.”

“Alright. We’ll have it down at the front desk, waiting on whatever poor Stark employee is sent to do your bidding.”

“Well, I’d--” Steve cuts off abruptly but Bucky knows what he was gonna say.

_ Well I’d come get it myself if Bucky let me. _

Bucky swallows and does not give into the urge to hide under the table but he also can’t really listen to Rachel finishing the phone call, not until Steve says, “Bye, Rach.  Bye, Buck. Talk to you guys soon.”

Bucky has known for awhile that this churning nausea he gets sometimes when Steve hangs up is guilt. He’s guilty that he’s keeping Steve from coming home, but not guilty enough to actually see him. Rachel always assures him that he doesn’t need to feel guilty for doing what he needs to do to get better. Bucky doesn’t believe her and it takes the whole morning for him to stop stewing in his guilt and ask the other questions that’s been on the tip of the tongue since the morning phone call.

“What manuscript?” Bucky asks when they’re settled in the livingroom, watching some dumb fucking show about rich people trying to find their dream homes.

And Rachel doesn’t know what he’s talking about, can’t remember the morning call with Steve. 

“Steve said he wanted to read one of Beck’s books again?” Bucky tries again. “It sounded like it wasn’t one she’d published before though.”

“Oh.” Rachel blinks at him. “Yes.  _ That _ .”

“What?”

“Beck wrote a book. It’s mostly a biography on you and Steve, with a little memoir and family history thrown in there. It’s your story from her perspective. I thought about giving it to you, now that you’re asking more questions about your sister, but I guess I forgot. Do you want to read it?”

Bucky thinks about this question for two more episodes of the dumb fucking real estate show.

“I want to read it,” he says.

* * *

There are two versions of Beck’s unpublished book.  _ The End of the Line  _ is the finalized manuscript, ready for public consumption. It is edited and formatted and ready to go to print at a word from Rachel (who’s waiting on a word from Steve).

The other is the long version, more like a bunch of books all smushed together; an analysis of the Captain America myth, the history of queer Brooklyn in the 30s, and a deeply personal memoir of Bucky’s family and of Steve’s.

"She started writing in the seventies,” Rachel says as they stand over Beck’s desk. The unabridged version is so massive it’s divided into two thick volumes, bound separately for readability. “And she was always adding to it over the years, after she’d interview your ma or someone from the old neighborhood. She used to go digging around in public records when she was between books. This was decades of work.”

Bucky’s too in awe of his sister to say anything. He picks up the first volume, thumbing through the pages. It doesn’t even have a title, just a table of contents that seems to be divided by dates, starting in 1916 (before Bucky was born) and ending in the 60s (long after he died.)

"She kept changing her mind and focusing on different things,” Rachel keeps explaining. “She finally decided to just write about you and Steve, maybe a year or two before Steve came home. Steve worked with her, helped her change a detail here and add a chapter there. She wrote like a fiend that last year, determined to get it perfect before she died. I think she was writing for you. She just didn't know it, but she was writing for you. Everything she thought you should know."

Bucky smiles a little, just a tick at the corner of his mouth. He likes Rachel's theory, likes that Beck was writing for him even if she didn't know he'd read her words one day. It's like how he missed Steve, almost constantly for decades, even when he didn't know who Steve was, even when he was just the soldier with no name of his own.

When he moves to open the first page, Rachel grabs his wrists and stops him. "Are you sure?  It might be upsetting."

"Can't be more upsetting that my last seventy years," Bucky murmurs. 

"Beck missed you so much. And it shows. Don't feel guilty for it. It wasn't your fault, that she never got you back from The War. We had a good life, James Buchanan, even with all the pain and heartbreak. Don't you forget that, even during the sad parts. There are some really sad parts."

Bucky nods, but he’s lost his words again. He opens Beck’s book so he can read some of his sister’s instead.

* * *

There are sad parts, but there is joy too. Beck writes like he remembers her talking, her tone in this work much different from her serious academic endeavors she got published over the years. This is personal, and it’s written that way, Beck’s sorrow and happiness right there on the surface.

Beck fills in the gaps of his memory, and Bucky takes notes, scribbling in the margins as he reads, little details Beck missed or tangents of memory, sparked by some story wrote about. He learns that his ma got pregnant only a few months after meeting his tateh at Wallabout Market. They married in a courthouse as soon as they found out, much to dismay of her Catholic brothers and his Jewish parents. His tateh was on a boat to Europe before Bucky was even born.

He learns that he met Steve in 1924. He learns that he and Steve had to leave his parents’ house in 1936.

Spread out on the livingroom floor, he pours over the unabridged volumes, comparing them to the final version that made the cut for future publications. He finds Steve’s original Post It notes for an early draft of  _ The End of the Line,  _ makes notes on Steve’s notes, writes down anything he remembers even if he’s not sure how it connects to what Beck wrote.

He takes the dates from Beck’s writings and adds them to the whiteboard timeline, carefully plotting out important life moments and color coding them to make his own notes for more details. He fills a notebook, starts on another, fills that too.

The whole thing is a goddamn mess, but it’s progress.

Bucky breathes easier and feels like himself when he surveys his work. His life story is right here, cobbled together from his own slowly healing mind and his sister’s writing and Steve’s notes, Rachel adding her two cents when he asks for it.

It’s all right here, except for that dark time, the Winter Soldier years. He does not want those memories back.

On the whiteboard, he crosses those years out with red marker.

* * *

He wakes up gasping, just like he woke up gasping after they cut off what remained of his arm. 

Shivering, he rolls over to the side of the bed, leaning over and heaving. Throwing up on the floor is better than throwing up in the bed, but nothing comes up. His skin is cold, frozen and sharp, little icy pinpricks covering every inch of him.

There is a blank spot in his memory where the fall should be, but he probably never could remember it. He wonders if he blacked out before impact. He wishes he could not remember the horror on Steve’s face, hand out reached out, getting smaller and smaller as Bucky fell.

With painful clarity, he also remembers being dragged through the snow and waking up on a table like he never left it. He remembers Zola's unbridled glee later, when he said,  _ "Your Captain let you fall from a train and left you for dead. And then he died himself, crashed his plane right into the ocean." _

He squeezes his eyes, beats back all those goddamn memories until they are locked away tight. Then it’s almost like he never remembered it at all, but his hands still shake, his skin’s still cold.

There's a clock on the bedside table, telling him that it's 0326 in glowing green numbers. He'd very much like to go back to sleep for a minimum of thirty-six days, but he's too shaken. He's twitchy and caged, this room too small.

Steve did not really die in that plane crash, just like Bucky didn't really die when he fell.  Everyone says so. Bucky's seen Steve, touched him,  _ fucking shot him _ .

The only reason Steve's not right here right now is because Bucky can’t see him yet. Steve stays away at Bucky’s request, living off phone calls and texts from home between blowing up Hydra bases and sitting through congressional meetings.

Today, Steve sent them a sketch of a monkey in a business suit, looking bored to tears as some government bureaucrats prattle at him.

Steve's  _ fine _ .

This room is too small so Bucky leaves it.

Rachel's room is also too small, but Bucky has no plans to stay in it long. He slips in silently and Rachel continues to snore softly. She has her phone charging on the dresser and Bucky steals it, slipping out of her bedroom as silently as he slipped into it.

On the balcony, he lights a cigarette. He didn't really smoke growing up, not until the war, and now he can order cigarettes on the internet like he can order groceries, but he’s gotta hide them from Rachel. Smoking was a good distraction once upon a time, something to occupy his hands when he wasn't aiming a sniper rifle, and he likes the heat of it now. The motion keeps his hand steady.

He lies down on the balcony with his cigarette, the tile uncomfortable against his back, but above him the sky is big and open and comforting. Almost anywhere else, he'd be able to see stars on a clear summer night like this. Here there’s too much smog obscuring the sky, too many city lights brightening the night to see the stars.

Bucky had the foresight to bring two down comforters with him, so he settles in with his blankets and his cigarettes and the starless sky.

The passcode on Rachel's phone is Beck's birthday. Bucky's not sure when he remembered the date.

Steve answers the call after only one ring, his voice alert in Bucky's ear, like he's been awake for awhile even though all reasonable people are asleep at three in the AM.

"Hey, Rach."

That's Steve, talking in his ear. His voice echoes in thousands of memories and it’s definitive proof that he's not long buried under ice in the arctic. He sounds alive, a little quiet, all deep and rumbling, but also not panicked.

Rachel must call him in the middle of the night enough to be no great cause for alarm. Bucky hopes wherever he is, Steve’s staying warm.

Bucky’s breath hitches. He bites the inside of his cheek and locks his jaw to keep from whimpering. He stares intently at the sky, proof that he's not frozen away in a box just like Steve's not frozen away at the north pole.

He has goals now, and the biggest one is talking to Steve, but it’s obvious after just a few seconds that it ain’t gonna fucking happen tonight.

"Rachel?" Steve repeats, a little concerned now. Papers shuffle, like Steve's sitting up straight, ready to spring into action.

Bucky wonders how far away he is, how quick he could get here.

Steve just breathes for a minute and then whispers, "Buck?"

He can't hold back a big, happy sigh at that sound of his name spoken in Steve's voice, proof that he's remembered it right. It’s so goddamn good and so fucking painful at the same time. With one word Steve cracks something open in Bucky’s chest. It sears its way through his bones, and settles warm in his gut, horrible and perfect all at once. Bucky doesn’t know how something this good can hurt so much. All his mixed up feelings come out in that big, happy sigh since he can’t find the words to tell Steve any of this.

At least he doesn't whimper.

"Bucky," Steve says again with obvious relief.

Bucky just breathes deep and even, loud enough that Steve can hear, and stares up at the starless sky. Maybe next week, he’ll finally be able to talk to Steve over the phone. Maybe he’ll just start with a “ _ Hi, Steve _ ,” and leave at that.

"You'd me tell if something was wrong, right?" Steve says after a few minutes of them just breathing together.

It's a strange question.

Everything is  _ wrong _ . Everything has been  _ wrong _ for a long time. 

"I mean, you'd tell me if there was some immediate danger? Like if you or Rachel weren't safe, you'd tell me? That's not why you're calling, is it?"

Bucky huffs in response. Like if there was any serious danger he'd waste time silently breathing on the phone with Steve. It's ludicrous.

"Okay, okay." Steve chuckles. "Maybe you just can't sleep? Me neither."

Bucky just keeps breathing, his eyes drifting closed. He's reasonably sure the sky will still be there when he opens them again.

"Sam's making me read Harry Potter," Steve says. "I don't really get it so far. This kid's a wizard but his terrible family makes him live in a cupboard. Although, honestly, it sounds better than some of the places we squatted. The whole thing’s kinda hokey so far, and for kids. Apparently there's seven books in the series, and Sam assures me that it gets really good in book three, but man, I don't know if I'm going to make it through the first two."

Bucky grins. Steve never was a big reader.

"You might like it though," Steve says. 

Bucky breathes even and deep in reply.

"Okay, I'll start at the beginning." Steve clears his throat and Bucky smiles so wide his cheeks hurt.

* * *

He played the piano, once upon the time. 

They had one in the drawing room, one of his mother’s first large indulgences when the company became the biggest in Wallabout and they moved to Park Slope. His ma taught him and Beck together when they were both small enough to squeeze in on the bench on either side of her. Beck’s fingers were a little clumsy, and she’d get frustrated ten minutes into practice, but Bucky stuck with it. He liked silly songs, that always made Steve laugh, and whatever sheet music his ma put in front of him.

Beck would usually wander over and sing along with him. They’d provide after dinner entertainment on occasion, when his uncles were trying to appear respectable for their sweethearts. It happened less, after Bucky and Steve moved out, maybe once or twice when everyone was feeling particularly nostalgic.

Growing up, his family had a piano in the drawing room.

Now, the Barnes House has one in the rec room.

It’s a Tuesday mid morning. There’s 45 minutes when the kids are all at school, when Rachel organizes something with Mia and Bucky’s allowed to go play at it. He wears his nano mask to look like “Bob” and skin sleeve, and manages to make polite conversation with Mia as she walks him through the home and to the piano. She asks about his writing and he manages to grunt out some noncommittal answer, hoping that Mia will think he’s just one of those moody creative types.

She leaves him be and he stares down at the keys for a few long minutes, remembering his mother’s careful instruction and his sister’s singing voice. He experiments with his disguised left hand on the keys, pleased when it sounds the same as his flesh hand, missing the clank of metal that would sound if he were to do this without him left hand covered.

Without really thinking about it, he lets himself play.

It might be the strangest fucking thing he’s experienced since coming back to himself - an experience marked by a series of very strange things - but his fingers remember a melody that his brain doesn’t. He keeps playing and the memory never returns to him, of where this mournful, beautiful little ditty came from. He knows better at this point, than to go chasing the memory.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees someone slink into the room. And he knows that it’s probably just a kid or one of the staff that run the place, but he straightens, focuses, gets ready to defend himself against any threat even as his fingers continue to play a song his mind does not remember.

(At least his instincts are still there. He heard footsteps, felt a presence, before anyone was with him in the room. Maybe all these weeks hiding here and scribbling on a whiteboard and studiously not chasing memories haven’t weakened him any.)

When he finishes, letting the last note resonate, the someone loitering behind him starts clapping.  

Bucky doesn’t even consider killing whoever it is. This is a vast improvement to even a week ago.

When he turns on the bench he recognizes the kid he met before he took Rachel to the park over the summer, with the buzzed blond hair and the bony elbows and the Captain America t-shirt.

“That was, like, really good,” they say, when Bucky does nothing but stare.

He clears his throat and has to think about how a person would respond for a moment. “Thank you.”

“What was that?”

“I don’t actually know,” Bucky confesses. “Something I picked up a long time ago that just kinda came back to me.”

“You’re a creative dude, huh?” they ask. Tam. The kid’s name is Tam and when Bucky met them, they were going back to school shopping with Mia and now they should really be in school because it’s a Tuesday in September. “Between the novel writing and the piano playing.”

“I guess.” Bucky shrugs.

“Are you gay?” Tam’s all narrowed eyed and suspicious, like they’ll absolutely flee the moment Bucky answers wrong.

It takes him a second to even understand what they’re asking him. The phrase was around - when he was still able to think about things like his sexuality, before they made him the soldier and he lost that part of himself, too - but it was more of a code word, a hint you’d drop into conversation to see if whoever you were talking to was queer, too. Gay still meant happy to the normal folks, but if you said it to the right fella you’d get a head tilt and a glint in the eye and maybe even an innuendo back.

Once upon a time, Bucky thinks a question like that - blatant and asked with no subtlety at all - woulda had him terrified and defensive and ready to put on his best impersonation of a fella who’s interested women, but now he has to bite his cheek to keep from laughing.

He likes Tam. The kid’s got gumption. 

“Yeah,” he replies and Tam relaxes, letting out a big relaxed breath.

“Figured. I mean, not many people hanging around here are straight, you know?”

Bucky nods because that’s how it was seventy years ago, too, when this place was a bar.  “Shouldn’t you be in school?” he asks.

“It was a half day for seniors,” Tam explains, coming closer. They’re a skittish little thing, keeping their back to the wall like they’re convinced someone will sneak up on them otherwise. Bucky knows that look. Bucky’s  _ had _ that look, before they taught him compliance.

(Bucky runs away from the memory, _ goddamn it. _ )

“The rest of the school is taking some bullshit standardized test or something. Hey, do you know Captain America?” They get a little bolder, leaving the safety of the wall to take another step towards Bucky at the piano. Maybe the kid’s just feeling brave. Bucky can’t imagine that he’s done anything to gain their trust. “He used to live upstairs with Rachel, you know.”

“I know.” Bucky swallows. “And yeah, we’ve met once or twice.”

“He’s cool, right? Did you know he was an artist? I was gonna ask him teach me how to draw but Dr. Beck said he hadn’t done much drawing since he de-thawed so I didn’t ask because it seemed kinda touchy, you know?”

Bucky swallows and nods, struggling to keep his face blank even though it’s protected under the layer of the mask. He’s not sure what’s causing this stabbing pain, right in his chest, either the casual mention of his dead sister or the revelation that Steve doesn’t even draw anymore or both.

Probably both.

Definitely both.

“So is this, like, what you do when you’ve got writer’s block or something?” Tam asks, apparently undeterred by Bucky’s lack of verbal response.

“Something like that,” he replies. It’s almost true. He’s still going through Beck’s book, writing down his memories in the margins, but last night he got through their childhood and read right up to The War.

He’s sure as shit not ready to take on The War.

“Do you teach lessons? I’ve messed around a little on my own, but I can’t read music or anything.” Tam cuts off, eyes going wide and face going pale. “No pressure or anything! That’s kinda rude to just ask. Never mind, I like, don’t even know you at all. Just ignore--”

“Okay,” Bucky says and it surprises them both. He and Tam stare at each other for a few awkward seconds, before Tam smiles, shy and hopeful.

“Really?”

“Sure. If it’s okay with Mia and Olive. I don’t know the rules.”

“I think it’ll be okay.” Tam comes closer, right up to the bench. They sit down next to Bucky, leaning away so their shoulders don’t so much as brush, but Bucky’s a little tense anyway, not used to being so near someone that doesn’t have decades of comfort associated with them like Rachel does. “I’ll ask the second I see one of them. But I don’t think they’ll mind.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, thinking back to what his ma would do with him when they sat down at the piano. He pushes his memory a little, but only enough to get a slight head ache until he finds what he was looking for. “This is middle C,” he says to start.

* * *

Piano lessons for Tam become part of the routine. Teaching them gives Bucky new goals, too.

He sits with them for an hour every Tuesday after school. They’re kinda lessons for him too, as he remembers how to read music and hear pitch before passing on his newly recovered knowledge to Tam.

He sits with Tam for an hour every Tuesday, until the Tuesday at the end of October when a picture of James Buchanan Barnes in uniform from 1942 appears in the paper, right alongside a grainy image of the Winter Soldier, darting between cars on a bridge in DC, muzzle missing, M4A1 in hand.

* * *

**1936**

Steve gets sick. 

Of course Steve gets sick. If there’s anything Bucky knows about Steve Rogers it’s that he’s stubborn and he’s brave and he always,  _ always  _ gets sick.

For weeks at the tail end of winter Steve’s nose leaks like a faucet and a nasty cough rattles in his chest. They fight about it, Bucky insisting every morning that Steve just rest a little, just take a fucking day off every once and awhile. Bucky’s got it on good authority from the boss lady that Steve can take as many days as he needs.

Steve’s stubborn as always and it’s making Bucky wanna pull his hair right on out of his head. He refuses to even admit that he ain’t feeling so hot, and just when he was finally starting to smile every once and awhile, too.

They got through the rest of the summer without Sarah, Steve settling in. It wasn’t much of a stretch for him to just become part of the routine around the Barnes household, doing chores and walking the kids to school and helping out in the kitchen. 

Christmas was hard, had Steve quieter than usual, his grief right on the surface again after he was doing alright in the fall. He painted a Barnes family portrait as a Christmas gift, George sitting in his high backed chair, with Winnie’s hand on his shoulder and their three kids around them. It’s a mighty nice picture, but Bucky hates it a little, frowning whenever he sees it hanging in a place of honor over the fireplace because that’s how Steve sees the Barnes Family.  

He’s missing from the portrait.

Nowadays, Steve plays chess with Tateh and lets Ma set him up on dates with girls from church, no matter how disastrous they always turn out. He helps Hannah with her drawing, listens to Hank ramble out an endless supply of Dodgers stats, and even sits still while Beck bounces ideas off him for her various reports for school. He’s a part of this family, an important one, and Bucky just wishes he could make Steve  _ see  _ that.

Recently Steve’s even had a couple jobs painting windows and started going out after class with his artsy friends and actually living his life again. He’d seemed happier for a minute there, even called the Barnes place  _ home _ in a casual conversation, not that long ago.

Of course Steve would get sick again, right when things were looking up.

And Steve, stubborn goddamn  _ genius  _ that he is, continues to pretend he’s fine and dandy. And continuing to ignore it has always, every fucking time, made him so much worse in the long run.

This morning, Bucky’s determined to make him sleep in at the very least. Steve won’t skip work or art class, but he’s gotten into the routine of following Bucky into work at the crack of dawn, working on his art at a table in the garage while Bucky’s under a truck. That is one concession Steve can surely make.

But Bucky’s gotta be sneaky about it.

By some miracle he manages to wake up a couple minutes before the alarm clock is set to ring. It’s still dark out and the room is cold, this winter sticking around longer than anyone would like.  Steve’s still wheezing away in the bed next to Bucky’s, unable to breathe through his nose.

Keeping as quiet as possible, Bucky turns off the alarm clock and slips out of the room without waking Steve. He gets ready for the day in the bathroom across the hall, listening to the murmur of his parents’ voices as they get up, too.

Steve’s still sleeping, right on through the time the alarm would normally ring, when Bucky gets back to the room. Bucky winces as the closet door creaks as he opens it, and begrudgingly turns on the light in there, digging around to find the clothes he needs for a morning in the garage and an afternoon out on customer calls with Ma.

“Did the alarm go off?” Steve asks from behind him. He turns on the lamp on the bedside table and Bucky curses under his breath.

Bucky gotta make sure he’s grinning, easy and relaxed, when he turns to look at Steve.

“Couple minutes ago,” he replies, pulling on his trousers. He’ll change into his jumpsuit when he gets to the garage.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” Steve’s glaring, already onto Bucky’s devious plot to get him a few more hours rest, goddamn it.

Before Bucky can answer, a cough rips through Steve’s chest. Bucky forces himself to pull on a starched shirt, buttoning it with shaky fingers that just itch to press into Steve’s back. Steve’s gotta be real bad off to accept any sort of coddling from Bucky. Touching him, comforting him, will only make it worse.

“Well?” Steve says when he manages to stop coughing. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Just go back to sleep, you punk.” Bucky tries to keep it light, tries to tease Steve back to bed but Steve’s gets up, stands on wobbly legs and shivers in the cold morning air.

“I’m fine.”

“Just go back to bed. There’s no good reason for you to follow me to the garage today. It’s freezing out there.”

“I said I’m fine,  _ dammit _ .”

“I’m serious about this.” Bucky snaps a little. He can’t stand it, the way Steve will ignore every big, fat clue that he’s getting sicker and just keep on pushing until he lands himself in a hospital. Bucky can almost understand when it's work or class that has Steve pushing himself, but this is just plain  _ dumb _ . “Steve. Don’t be stupid. Go back to bed.”

Steve turns red with rage, shoving Bucky out of the way to get to the closet. “You ain’t my ma, James! I don’t got one of those.”

“Steve-”

“And I’m a grown man, so I don’t need nobody telling me what to do, least of all  _ you _ .”

“You’re gonna work yourself to death, is what you’re gonna do!”

“I’m  _ fine _ .”

“You’re  _ sick _ .”

Steve’s reply - as angry and colorful as it surely was gonna be - gets lost in a torrent of hacking coughs so wet and harsh that Bucky winces. Steve doubles over, struggling to catch a breath, and Bucky gives in and goes to him. He rubs Steve’s back, murmuring soothing words even though the sight of Steve struggling to breathe like this always leaves him shaken and terrified.

It takes an eternity, but Steve eventually stops hacking and starts breathing a little easier, the wheezing less painful than the horrible, wet sound of his coughing. He stands up straight, glaring at Bucky like this is somehow all his fault, shoving Bucky away again.

“Leave me alone,” he grumbles as he pulls on pants and a shirt. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand and then pulls a sweater on over his head, threadbare and ancient but another layer of defense against the frigid air outside. “I can take care of myself.”

Bucky snorts, crossing his arms over his chest just to keep from shaking Steve until he understand how stupid and unnecessary this is. “You’re doing a piss poor job of it.”

“It’s none of your business, Bucky!” Steve yells. And normally they’re a little more careful about not waking the kids, but both of them are too angry to care about the early hour.

“Fine!” Bucky screams right back. “Go ahead and work yourself to death! See if I care!”

Steve droops a little, staring at him with wide, hurt eyes. 

Two months to the day after Sarah passed away, they got rip roaring drunk and Steve said with his Ma gone, there was no one around to care if he lived or died. And Bucky didn’t have the words to tell him how dead wrong that was, to explain how important Steve is to Bucky and his whole family. So he made his declarations with his mouth on Steve’s neck, his hands down Steve’s pants.

Bucky wants to apologize, to drop to his knees and beg Steve to take care of himself, beg him to keep on breathing. But then Beck starts pounding on the other side of the wall. 

“Knock it off!” she screams at the top of her lungs, undoubtedly doing more to wake the whole goddamn house than Steve and Bucky’s shouting combined. “Some of us like to sleep until the sun’s at least up!”

“Some people, not to name any names, should take a lesson from you, Beck,  _ and go back to bed! _ ” Bucky yells back, getting closer to the wall his room shares with Beck’s to smack his fist into the wall back. She hits the wall even harder in response, making the mirror hanging there rattle.

Steve’s back to being furious. “Just leave me the hell alone,” he growls at Bucky as he slips out the bedroom door, slamming it behind him. That makes the mirror rattle on the wall even more.

Beck’s still pounding on the wall, and Bucky’s determined to get the last fucking word somewhere, so he pounds back. They keep at it for a minute, until Ma yells at them both from the hall and they go silent.

Bucky collapses face first into his bed for a second, screaming into his pillow and slamming his fists into his mattress. It doesn’t make him feel any better.

* * *

Steve and Bucky don’t speak all day, not in the garage in the morning or in the office in the afternoon after Bucky comes back from a successful sales call. They don’t talk at dinner or when Ma makes them deep clean the kitchen afterward, in hopes that the extra chores on what is supposed to be Beck’s night for dishes will get them talking.

It doesn’t work.

They get ready for bed in stormy silence and don’t chat like they normally do - not about their days, not about their plans for tomorrow, not about the goddamn weather - when they turn off the lights.

And then in the morning, Steve’s too delirious with fever to say anything halfway coherent at all.

* * *

“You know what the last thing I said to him was?”

Beck glances up from where she’s sitting close to the fire, a book in her lap. Nearby, in his high backed leather chair, Tateh glances up from his paper, pushing his glassed up to rest on top of his head.

It’s been three days since Steve’s been too feverish to do anything but sleep restlessly and cough, choking and sputtering when they try to get some water in him. Ma’s in with him and the doctor now. 

This afternoon, Bucky heard his parents whispering about calling on the priest.

“What’d you say, Buck?” Beck asks. She’s got tears in her eyes, the light from the fire making them glow a strange, glossy orange.

“That I-” Bucky’s got to clear his throat, blinking back tears.“That I didn’t care if he lived or died.”

“He knows you don’t mean it,” Beck insists. “He’s gonna be  _ fine _ . He’s gonna get better and you can say you’re sorry and then you’ll go back to giving each other a hard time like normal. It’s gonna be  _ fine _ .”

Tateh doesn’t say anything. He sets his paper aside, motions for Bucky to come closer. When Bucky’s within reach, Tateh squeezes his hand and closes his eyes and says a prayer, something in Hebrew that Bucky can’t actually understand. But he doesn’t need to know the words to get the meaning, so he closes his eyes and prays with everything he’s got for Steve.

It gets harder to not to cry, when his little sister comes closer, wrapping her arm around his waist and resting her head on his shoulder, murmuring along with Tateh even though she doesn’t really know the words, either.

* * *

Bucky gets home from work late, well after dinner. They had three trucks break down on their routes today, with two of their back-up mechanics out with the same flu that nearly killed Steve, so he and Tateh did all the repairs themselves. The trucks will be ready for the morning deliveries and Bucky’s gonna sleep until noon.

He tiptoes towards his bedroom door, whispering goodnight as Tateh continues down the hall, but the light’s still on when he gets inside. Steve must still be awake and Bucky’s too tired to yell at him about staying up so late, just a few days after his fever broke.

Bucky dumps his coat on the floor, kicking off his shoes and moving straight for the dresser to dig out his pajamas without looking up. All his clothes get left in a pile. He’ll deal with them when he’s not so dog tired.

When he finally turns around, he stops short, breath catching in his chest, because Steve’s up all right. He’s in Bucky’s bed, sitting against the headboard, looking golden and beautiful in the low lamplight. A night shirt of Bucky’s is hanging off his delicate shoulders, unbuttoned and left open.

Bucky stares at him. It’s been weeks since he had Steve in his bed, Steve coming to him less and less, until Bucky was convinced that the last time as also  _ their _ last time.

“Hey.” Bucky sounds as breathless as he feels.

Steve blushes, takes a deep breath, and whispers, “I’m sorry.”

Taking a deep breath of his own, Bucky crosses the room. He turns off the lamp and slides into bed next to Steve, the both of them adjusting unders the blankets until they are facing each other.

“I’m sorry, too.” It’s easier to apologize in the dark, when he doesn’t have to see how Steve’s wasted away to practically nothing in the last few weeks. When he’s not angry at Steve for pushing himself so hard or at God for denying Steve the good health he deserves or at himself for not doing more. “I said some stuff, when I was angry.”

“No, you were right. I was… I dunno. Sometimes I feel like I should just be strong enough to not get sick, like if I just go about my life when I start feeling bad it’ll just go away. And sometimes it’s hard to tell, what’s gonna turn out to be something serious and what’s just normal for me. This time was bad, though.”

“ _ Steve _ .”

“I know. I know, okay?” Steve huffs a breath. “It was too close a call. I barely remember the last week. It--It scared me.”

Bucky knows how hard this must be for Steve, how unwilling he is to admit to any such weakness. He wouldn’t even admit to being scared when his ma landed in the TB ward, and he sounds so small now, so vulnerable, that Bucky’s gotta reach out. He rest his hand on Steve’s neck, running his thumb along Steve’s jaw, and Steve lets him.

“Me too.” Bucky murmurs. “I was  _ terrified _ .”

“I’m so sorry.” Steve presses closer, tangles their legs up together under the blankets, rests a hand on Bucky’s ribs. Even over his shirt, Steve’s fingers are too cold.

“It’s not your fault,” Bucky says.

Steve snorts. “It’s a  _ little _ my fault.”

Well. Bucky ain’t gonna argue.

“Next time,” Steve says, hand moving to Bucky’s chest. “Next time, I’m gonna take it easy like you say.”

“Maybe there won’t be a next time,” Bucky mutters.

Steve laughs. “Ain’t this whole conversation about how ignoring shit ain’t gonna solve anything? There’s no reason to pretend I’m gonna magically get the sort of body that never gets sick. Come on, Bucky.”

“Urg, fine.” Bucky closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Steve’s, comforted by Steve’s steady breathing. “Next time you ain’t gonna be such an ass about it.”

“Next time I’ll get more sleep. Take care of myself.” Steve pops the first button on Bucky’s pyjama shirt, rests his hand over Bucky’s heart. Bucky shivers. “Let you take care of me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

Steve kisses him, gentle and tender and brief. He kisses him again, and when Bucky lets out a pleased, desperate sound, kisses Bucky lazily, softly. They’ve shared angry biting kisses full of grief and desperation. They’ve laughed against each other’s mouths, sharing drunken, ridiculous kisses when Steve comes back from drinking with his artsy friends in Harlem.

This is different, slow and sober. It makes Bucky’s chest ache. A week ago, Bucky thought Steve would die and now he’s back in Bucky’s bed, promising to take care of himself and kissing Bucky so sweetly.

“Hey,” Steve whispers against Bucky’s mouth. Bucky tries to kiss him some more, but Steve pushes on his shoulder until Bucky’s laid out on his back. “If I’m letting you take care of me, then I get to take care of you, too.”

Steve already does that, just by living here where he’s safe and loved and warm. He already does that, just so long as he keeps on breathing.

“Deal,” Bucky says.

Steve giggles and gives Bucky another quick, smacking kiss. “I wanna try something, okay?”

Bucky’s pretty sure he would say yes to anything about now, and when he nods his agreement, he’s got no idea that Steve’s gonna kiss his way down Bucky’s chest, pull down his pants, and take Bucky in his mouth.

It’s so good Bucky could cry.

It’s so good, Bucky doesn’t think twice about falling asleep with Steve in his arms, doesn’t think twice about his bedroom door and the lock he did not turn when he got home tonight.

* * *

The snow’s starting to melt a couple days later. Bucky hopes this is the big thaw, the first sign of spring.

He decides to go home for his lunch instead to wash off the engine grease from a morning spent in the shop and clean up for a afternoon in the office. The walk will do him good and he should have the place to himself, a rare treat indeed. Beck and the twins are at school. Steve's at the community art center, taking his first drafting class since his fever broke. Bucky coulda sworn his parents were both in a meeting all day, renegotiating a delivery contact for the summer with a big fruit vendor.

"James," calls Ma from the kitchen, stopping him when he's halfway up the stairs.

"Hiya.” He back tracks, sticking his head through the doorway and frowning at his parents. They are seated side by side at the kitchen table, looking grim and serious. "I take it the meeting didn't go as planned?"

"It was rescheduled." Ma's talking slow, careful, like she's working extra hard not to sound too Irish.

Tateh doesn't say anything at all, doesn't even look at him.

"Oh," replies Bucky. 

"Come have tea," says Ma. It's a command, not a suggestion.

"Can I clean up first?" He shows off the engine grease blackening his fingers.

"Be quick about it."

He’s  _ extremely _ quick about it, pulling off his shirt and undoing his pants before he even gets into his room. It takes him less than ten minutes to wash up, frowning all the while over what has his parents so serious. Maybe they lost a big contract. Maybe one of his uncles finally got caught doing something illegal.

There’s a mug of tea waiting for him when he gets back to the table. He slides into the chair across from his parents. "Thanks, Ma."

“You father made it."

"Thanks, Tateh."

His father nods, but still says nothing. He's a quiet fella, but he usually makes up for it with a pretty impressive array of facial expressions. Right now, he’s just blank. He stares at Bucky and Bucky twitches in his seat, leg jiggling under the table.

"Are you going back to the office today?" Bucky asks. "I'm going through the books with Aunt Mary this afternoon. Think Beck's planning on coming in after school to do some of the typing."

"James," say Ma. That's twice she's called him James since he got home.

Bucky sips his tea and struggles to swallow. “Yeah?”

Ma and Tateh turn to look at each other, communicating without words like they do. Tateh nods once and Ma takes a big breath, turning back to look at Bucky.

“We’ve found an apartment for Steve. It’s close to the market, close to work, small, but in a good building. With plenty of windows and proper ventilation and a radiator.”

Bucky blinks. “What?’

“We’ll pay for his rent, keep him employed, at least until he’s able to find work with his art,” Ma continues. She clears her throat and reaches for her cup of tea, her hands shaking ever so slightly as she brings it to her mouth to drink.

“What?” Bucky says again, because nothing his mother just said makes sense. His parents love Steve. Just last month, Ma called him a godsend after she set up a last minute pitch with a prospect client and had to scramble to find someone to pick up the twins from school.

Steve’s  _ family _ .

“We think this will be for the best,” Ma says, speaking very carefully. “For everyone.”

“What’re you  _ talking _ about?” Bucky’s queasy, lightheaded. He still doesn’t understand what’s happening here, but it’s making him feel sick anyway. “It’s not what’s best for Steve. He shouldn’t be all on his own. And it ain’t what’s best for me either.”

His Ma’s hands are no longer shaking as she slams her teacup down on the table. Bucky jumps, staring at Ma as her nostrils flare and she jaw clenches.

“It is  _ absolutely _ ,” she says, in that low, terrifying voice that only comes out when she’s furious, “what’s best for you.”

Tateh winces, dropping his head to look down at his lap. Ma raises her chin and looks Bucky right in the eye, daring him to argue. He gapes at the pair of them, panic rising in his chest. He’s starting to get what this is all about, even if it seems impossible.

They were so careful.

Except those few times they weren’t all that careful.

In his shame, Bucky’s cheeks burn red. He swallows, struggles to breathe, struggles to figure out what he can possibly say.

“You should know,” Ma says, “that I’ve been checking in on Steve every night, even after the fever broke.”

Bucky shudders and can’t look her in the eye. It was that last time, then, just a couple nights ago when Bucky got home late and Steve said they’d take care of each other and no one thought to lock the door.

“That wasn’t anything,” Bucky whispers. “I thought he was gonna die and we just fell asleep like that. That’s all. Nothing happened.”

He peeks up at his parents’ faces, Tateh grimacing and Ma raising one eyebrow, clearly disbelieving and unimpressed.

Bucky takes a deep breath, fingers digging into his knees as he fights the urge to cry. He’s never been so ashamed, so embarrassed, but it’s not so bad. They’re not throwing Steve out on the street. Steve’s gonna get his own place and keep on working for the company and Bucky will see him plenty.

“Okay,” Bucky says. “Okay, I’ll talk Steve into taking the apartment. That’s gonna be fine.”

Ma and Tateh exchange another one of their looks, and Bucky’s heart sinks. 

“James,” Ma whispers, quiet and deadly. “You can’t see him.”

Bucky feels faint, swaying in his chair and struggling to understand how he got here when he was so happy just this morning, when Steve let Bucky kiss him goodbye before unlocking his bedroom door and joining Tateh in the kitchen for breakfast.

“What?” Bucky whispers.

“There are still rules you must follow when you are part of this family, when you are living in this house. This is a new one. You cannot see Steve. He’s bad for you. That’s obvious now, even if I ignored the signs before.” Ma grimaces, like she’s taking personal responsibility for all the times Steve’s crawled into Bucky’s bed in the last year.

“What?” Bucky says again.

“Briefly, at work, you may say hello so long as you are not alone with him, but nothing beyond that,” Ma says. “You cannot see him. You will follow the rules of this household, of this family.”

"You're making me choose, is that it? You or Steve?"

“We’re your family," Ma says, cheeks turning red. "There’s no choice. It's family first."

"He's family, too."

Ma takes a deep breath. "His mother was my best friend and I promised to take care of her son before she died, and I will not break that promise. I’ll pay for his medical care and won’t let him live out on the streets. But he's not just an invalid, Bucky, he's also an invert and he's bad for you."

"Ma!" says Bucky, too shocked to be properly angry.  He's heard that kind of talk for years, ladies in the neighborhood whispering about Steve dying before he's twenty, calling him a drain on his poor, hard working mama. He's heard guys call Steve an invert and wonder out loud how well Steve could take it.

But not from his ma. Never from his ma.

"It's not shocking to me," she continues. "I know how men are, and if you were just sticking it to him on occasion, we could overlook it."

"Mother!" Bucky hisses. “Jesus Christ.”

Bucky forgets sometimes, that his mother spent so many of her formative years around her hard drinking, hard living brothers, overseeing their criminal enterprises and bribing her way to the top at Wallabout. She’s not just the pious, church going lady and business woman she appears to be most days. Her roots are more perverse. She probably spent a lot of time around nasty talk like that, even if she doesn't show it all that often.

Bucky looks beseechingly at his father, but he's got his eyes closed, shaking his head slightly, as if he's pretending not to be here for this conversation at all.

"You get soft around Steve,” Ma continues. “He's dragging you into his perversion and I won't have it. You're too old for this nonsense now, have got too bright a future to be messing around with Steve."

She’s got it all wrong. His parents think Steve's the queer one, the instigator, somehow luring Bucky away from girls because he's convenient or something. But if there's a full out queer in this situation, it’s Bucky. Steve would have no problem going with a girl, if only he could find one with enough sense to give him a chance.

Bucky’s the problem here. Bucky’s been the problem long before he realized he wanted to kiss Steve all the time, since he was about seven years old, getting all sick and sweaty when Ma casually mentioned his future wife and kids.

She thinks she’s so disgusted with Steve, but it’s really Bucky that’s making her lip curl and her nostrils flare. And Bucky’s never been so ashamed. His ma is disgusted by what he is, and even worse, he’s too terrified to defend Steve, to tell Ma that Bucky’s the problem, the one who should leave. 

He should speak up and defend Steve’s honor but he just can’t.

" _ Okay _ ." He’s desperate, scrambling for anything that will make this okay, anyway to keep Steve in his life even if he can never, ever have Steve in his bed again. "Fine. I swear nothing will happen. He my friend, and that's all. And I'll take out that Harper girl next weekend, stop working in the shop so much and go out on sales calls more. I get it, Ma. It's time I start thinking about running the company and getting married."

Ma's shoulders relax slightly, her jaw relaxing. Beside her, Tateh opens his eyes and looks at Bucky for the first time since this conversation started.

"Good." Ma nods, resolved. "I want him out tonight. I gave it a few more days, to make sure he’s healthy enough for it. But no more.”

“Tonight?” Bucky says. “You want him out  _ tonight _ ?”

“Yes.”

Bucky takes a deep breath and does not let himself cry. "So we’ll get him moved out tonight."

"Yes." She lets out a big breath, like she was expecting a fight.

"And if I promise to find a girl to go steady with, start taking my position at the company seriously, I can still see him. If I swear he’s just my pal and nothing more.” Ma’s already shaking her head before he even finishes and Bucky halfway stands, lunges a little towards her but stops himself from grabbing her hands. 

It’d make her skin crawl, if she really knew him and he touched her like that. 

He’s the pervert here, after all.

“No, you’ll not see him,” she says again and Bucky’s on his feet, pacing the length of the kitchen and tugging at his hair.

"He's my best friend."

“Not any more.”

Tears burn behind his eyes. “ _ Please _ . He doesn’t have anyone else. Just us.”

"You cannot see him.” Ma turns away, her word final. “We’ve made that clear."

"I'm eighteen years old, Mother!" He’s not angry. He’s too horrified to be properly angry, but his desperation comes out in a yell. "You can't control who I spend time with!"

"I can and I  _ will _ ." Ma’s calm. She’s always calm when she’s angry, even though her hands are clasped together on the table, knuckles white from the force of her grip. "I am your mother."

"I don't care who the hell you are. It's  _ wrong _ ."

Tateh, silent through the increasingly loud exchange, slams a hand down on the tabletop.  Bucky jumps, but Ma doesn't. She simply turns to look at him, resting a hand on his shoulder.

Bucky breathes deep and even, sure that with Tateh involved, things will be more reasonable.  They've never had a fight this big, but this is usually how it works. Mama loves fiercely, and she always thinks she's right. It makes her strict, unmovable, willing to control every aspect of her children's live out a firm conviction that she knows best what will make them happy. She does it with Beck all the time, insisting on teaching her to cook, giving her more chores, making her wear dresses to school.

It's Tateh that reigns her back. He loves them, too, and would let them have whatever they wanted, even if it was bad for them, if he thought it would make them happy. Once, he let Bucky and Beck eat an excess of ice cream, only to be shocked when they both threw up at the dinner table half an hour later.

Together, his parents find a middle ground that seems to work for everyone. Beck only has to wear dresses to church. Deserts are saved for special occasions.

So with Tateh involved, Bucky's sure he'll get to keep Steve. They'll go back to how they were before Sarah got sick. Steve will have his own place and Bucky will set up double dates for them and it will be fine because Tateh will talk Ma down. He always does.

"You will not speak to your mother that way," Tateh says.

“Yes, sir.” Bucky grimaces and nods. "Sorry, Ma."

"He cannot stay." Tateh’s finally looking at him and Bucky’s so sick with shame he wishes he would go back to staring at the table. "And you cannot see him. You think we can let him near the family? With our children? With Hank?"

“Huh?” Bucky sputters. “Why’re you bringing Hank into this?”

He’s baffled for a few long seconds. Tateh stares at him and now it’s Ma looking at the table to avoid Bucky’s eyes. Bucky stares back until he gets it.

"He's an invert, tateleh,” murmurs his father. “He cannot help himself."

It's like getting hit, right in the chest.

His father’s so kind, and so unwavering good, even to his wife's big, loud, Irish mob-adjacent family, so somehow, this belief that Steve could hurt a kid is worse than everything Ma just said combined.

Bucky staggers a little, nearly blown over by his shock.

“But you know him,” he whispers. He lets a few tears fall and wipes at his nose with the back of his hand. “He’s still Steve. You know he’d never hurt anybody, especially not a kid. Especially not Hank.”

“It’s in his nature,” Tateh replies.

_ It’s in your nature _ , Bucky hears.

Bucky stares at his parents. These two people sitting across the table from him are strangers suddenly. They’ve done nothing but love him his whole life, but Bucky can’t really remember that now, not in the face of everything they’ve just said. Not when they really believe that about Steve.

Not when they believe that about Bucky.

“I can’t stay here,” Bucky replies. His sudden stillness is eerie, like he hasn’t quite figured out this is happening for real. It’ll hit him later, probably, but in this moment he knows exactly what he needs to do.

“What?” asks Winnie.

Bucky breathes deep. “Steve goes, I go.”

“ _ What _ .” His mother is hissing, glaring. Her hands are shaking again.

“You heard me,” Bucky replies.

George stands from the table slowly. “You leave this house, you leave this family. You won’t be welcomed back easily, James.”

“Good.”

A small part of Bucky expects them to change their minds, when they see him packed up and ready to leave. He expects them to cave as he calls their bluff. They don’t.

* * *

“What the hell are you doing out here?” Steve demands when he finds Bucky sitting on the front stoop three hours later. He hasn’t noticed the duffle at Bucky’s feet, Steve’s own stuffed full rucksack. “It ain’t that warm, Buck. After all the grief you gave me, you’d think you’d do a little better job keeping yourself from getting a damn cold. Are you trying to be the next one to end up bedridden for the next couple weeks, huh?”

Steve stops in front of Bucky, tucking his thumbs into his belt buckle as he stares down at Bucky’ shivering away on the front steps. It only takes Steve a couple seconds to notice all their stuff sitting at Bucky’s side.

“Buck?” he whispers. “What’s goin on?”

Bucky’s still speechless, all these hours later. He swallows, his mouth dry, and just shakes his head. Steve looks properly concerned, although he can’t have a clue what’s going on just yet. He reaches out to rest a hand on his shoulder, and Bucky flinches away from the contact. 

“Bucky?” Steve asks again.

“We gotta go,” he says, standing just so he won’t give into the impulse to hide his face against Steve’s stomach and sob.

“What?” Steve demands. “Is that our stuff?”

“We can’t stay here anymore. We gotta go.”

“Why? What the hell happened, Bucky? Everything was fine this morning! You’ve gotta at least tell me what’s going on.”

Bucky does actually let out a sob at the thought of telling Steve that Bucky’s father thinks Steve’s gonna hurt Hank. It’s a just a little, broken cry, but it’s enough to make Steve’s eyes go wide and scared.

“Please,” Bucky whispers. He’s been begging all afternoon, for his parents to understand, for them to compromise, and begging Steve is harder, but he can’t talk about it. He can’t bear to think about it even. “Please, don’t make me talk about it. Just--We’ve gotta go. Can we go? Can you not make me talk about it?”

Steve takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders and standing as straight as he’s able. “Okay. Where we going?”

In all the hours sat here with their things, Bucky didn’t once consider where they’d go next. “I dunno. We’ve gotta find some place to live. Fuck, I’ve gotta get a job.”

Steve’s eyebrows go way up, like maybe he thought that them leaving would be temporary. “So, do I need a job too?”

Bucky bites his lip and nods. This is all his doing. If he could just lock a fucking door or just not touch Steve in the first place, Steve wouldn’t be standing here, shivering and homeless, outcast from the only family he’s got left.

“Okay,” Steve says, already strategizing. “Can we go to Tommy’s? At least for the night?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, so relieved that they have a plan. “Yeah, at least tonight. Maybe for a few, if we’re lucky.”

Steve nods, turning to look at the brownstone looming above them. When they were leaving it just this morning on the way to work, it was so warm and inviting. Now Bucky can’t even look at it. He pulls Steve’s rucksack onto his back, shoulders his own duffle.

“Come on,” he murmurs, setting off in the direction of Tommy’s apartment. 

“Wait.” Steve’s hand closes on Bucky’s wrist and this time he doesn’t flinch away. “Buck, are you sure about this? This is your family we’re talking about. This is your  _ home _ .”

Bucky takes a deep breath and starts walking. “Not anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you all so much. Thank you for reading. 
> 
> Things are about to really get moving next chapter, so thanks for sticking with me! Next up, there may or may not be emotional reunions, strategy sessions with Steve's best buddies, and Rachel Rosenbaum/Barnes smirking a lot.
> 
> This was beta read by the amazing [Di](http://http://lesdienne.tumblr.com/) and the amazing AJ. 
> 
> [Tumblr!](http://jaxington.tumblr.com/) I have one. I even post stuff there on occasion.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was beta read by the best betas in all the land, [Di](http://http://lesdienne.tumblr.com/) and AJ. 
> 
> [Tumblr!](http://jaxington.tumblr.com/) I have one! Come say hi!

Steve calls at 2100, half an hour into the movie.

Weeks ago, Bucky set Steve’s ringtone to the song with all the yodeling from  _ Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. _ Steve was obsessed with the animation and yodeled under his breath while he sketched for the first half of 1938. During the day, the song makes Bucky snicker.

This late at night, only a coupla hours after Steve called already, the yodelling is more sinister than amusing.

“Steven?” Rachel answers. Bucky pauses their movie and turns on a light as Rachel fumbles to put on the speakerphone.

“Hey.” Steve sounds  _ awful,  _ like he hasn’t slept a wink in four days running.

“A little late for your usual phone call,” Rachel murmurs, frowning at her watch. This is outside the routine. Rachel can’t remember if he’s already called tonight.

“Did I wake you?”

“No,” Rachel says. “Bucky and I are watching  _ The Best Years of our Lives _ . He keeps laughing at the fella with hooks for hands, waving around his fancy metal arm like he’s bragging. Did you know it wurrs when it moves? Say hi, Buck.”

Bucky glares.

“Bucky says hi,” Rachel reports, entertaining herself greatly.

Steve chuckles. “Does he now?”

“He’s saying it with his eyes.”

“I’m sure he’s saying  _ something _ with his eyes and hi ain’t it,” Steve replies. Bucky tilts his chin towards his chest, trying to hide his smile from Rachel. For one little moment, Steve sounds happy and fond. Then he gets serious again. “Look, we’ve got a situation.”

Bucky sits up straight, the plates in his arm shifting and whirring - a noise he did not notice until Rachel had to go and point it out - as he prepares himself for a fight. He resists both the urge to crawl onto the floor to wedge himself in next to the couch, and the equally compelling need to just leave, to get out of this apartment. Bucky wants to go to Steve, even though he doesn’t know where Steve is.

“Tomorrow” Steve says, “the FBI is announcing the identity of The Winter Soldier.” 

Rachel actually gasps.

Bucharest is lovely this time of year. Bucky could stuff all his notebooks and Beck’s writing in a backpack. He could be there in under twenty hours.

He stays put.

“It doesn’t sound like they’re putting you on a terrorist list or anything like that, Buck, just announcing that you're wanted for questioning.”

Steve takes a deep breath. Rachel and Bucky each take a deep breath. Not even she can come up with anything to say, and she’s always been a right chatterbox.

“I don’t have all the details,” says Steve, talking fast now. “But apparently there’s some article coming out too, and the paper got their hands on security footage from DC with a few shots of your face plus a couple other leaked government sources. They’ve gone through the data dump and pulled anything on the Winter Soldier. There wasn’t much, just a few past missions and some details on how they… what they… the, um.”

Bucky grits his teeth and just wants Steve to fucking  _ say it  _ already.

They tortured him, brainwashed him, and took everything, right down to Bucky’s own name and every last sacred, beloved memory. Tomorrow, the whole world's gonna know what they did to Bucky and then what Bucky did in turn. He just wants Steve to fucking say it.

“So, it's not an entirely unsympathetic piece, apparently,” Steve continues. He clears his throat and takes another deep breath, another. “I guess the FBI is trying to get out in front of it with this announcement. I dunno. This is all coming from Natasha’s contacts. No one’s bothered of talk to me about it. Without Nat I’d just be reading about it in the paper.”

It’s nice to hear Steve so bitter about the whole situation. Bucky thinks he should be feeling something, probably. A normal person would be angry or terrified or  _ something _ . Bucky’s just nothing, now that the strange flash of anger at Steve’s inability to just say it has passed.

Steve’s breathing on the other end of the phone. On this end of the phone, Bucky’s breathing too, deep and even. Rachel turns her head to look at him. She’s got tears in her eyes. He shakes his head at her and, by some miracle, she doesn’t cry.

“Uh,” says Steve. “Guys? You there?”

“So this news,” Rachel says, once she’s gotten over her shock. She’s still looking at Bucky, but Bucky can’t look at her so he stares down at his feet. There are little Captain America shields decorating his socks. “They’re going to say he’s been a prisoner of war since 1945,  _ right _ ? That’s the story,  _ right _ ?  _ Right _ , Steve? That’s gonna be the story, isn’t it,  _ Steve _ ?”

Rachel’s fury on his behalf makes it easier to just sit here and process instead of fleeing the scene entirely. She’s red-faced and deeply offended that there could be any other story.  _ Like all the goddamn people he’s put bullets through, blown up and stabbed and sliced into a billion pieces ain’t a pretty compelling piece of journalism. _

“Yeah.” Steve breathes out the word. “Well, that’s the goal. I mean, I gonna get on a plane and come to the city and talk to Stark’s PR people. Start giving some interviews. Natasha’s working on unencrypting and releasing some of the files on what they did to you, Buck, and I don’t like it, I fucking hate it, but it’s the best way to control the story, to make people see that you were the victim here. That Hydra’s who we need to be focused on.”

Steve’s got his Captain America voice on. Rachel looks like she’s gonna start blubbering again at any second. The details of Bucky’s last seventy years are about to become common fucking knowledge and Steve’s talking like he’s about to march into his worst battle yet and Rachel’s so sad and Bucky doesn’t like it. 

They’re upset and Bucky can’t do anything about it. He’s the cause of their grief, even.

Tomorrow, there’s gonna be a story in the paper and an announcement from the FBI. Steve’s gonna have to deal with it. Rachel’s gonna know. Fuck,  _ everyone’s  _ gonna know. Bucky’s working so hard not to know himself and now it's all just gonna be out there for the world to see and Steve to handle and Rachel to cry over.

His heartbeat starts flying in his chest. He’s gotta keep wiping his palm on his flannel sleep pants while his leg jiggles.

Bucky wants to puke.

(He’s not so happy to start having these normal-people feelings - horror, fury, disgust, whatever the fuck this is - now that he’s so goddamn nauseous with a heaping side of dizzy.)

Rachel reaches over to take Bucky’s hand, like she’s done a million times since he got rid of the rule that he had to give her permission, but tonight it makes Bucky jump out of his skin. He jerks away, flinching like this is not Rachel reaching for him, but some faceless scientist, peeling his skin away just to see how fast it will grow back.

“Oh, Bucky,” Rachel murmurs.

“Buck?” Steve says. “You there? I’m so sorry this is all coming out now. But you’re still safe. No one knows where you are, just me and Sam. And Nat figured it out on her own. I didn’t tell the rest of the team. You’re safe, just gotta be real careful, wearing the mask and the sleeve when you go out. Keep on hiding in plain sight. I won’t let it change anything.”

Bucky does not believe him, but hearing it helps.

“Steve?” Bucky’s startled by his own voice. 

After months of carefully planning just what his first words to Steve will be and then chickening out a dozen times, Steve’s name just falls out of his mouth like it’s easy.

And compared to the whole fucking world knowing about what he did, talking to Steve doesn’t seem so damn impossible.

Beside him, Rachel raises an eyebrow and through the phone Bucky clearly picks up Steve’s sharp little intake of breath.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve replies, like that’s the easiest thing he’s ever said, too.

“Do you want to come over for dinner?” Bucky makes the invite without thinking too hard about it. 

That’s working for him in the moment, just going with his gut and not thinking too hard about anything. 

And his gut is screaming for Steve. 

“I know you’ll be busy answering questions because I blew up DC, but if you have a free night.”

“You did  _ not _ blow up DC,” Steve insists.

“We’ll make soup.”

“ _ Honey _ .” Steve breathes out the endearment like a prayer. “ You’re serious. You want me to come home. Fuck, I missed you so fucking much. You got no idea how good it is to hear your voice. Bucky, honey, you sound so good. I missed it. I missed you.”

Rachel lets out a delighted squeal and then covers her mouth. Behind her hands, Bucky can tell she’s beaming wide. Her eyes are sparkling and her shoulders shake a little,

Bucky regards her warily, and then blinks down at the phone, where Steve’s voices is coming through more hysterical by the second.

“It’s really you, Buck,” Steve says. “You’re really there, safe at home with Rachel, and I knew that it was really you but part of me thought I just dreamed you up, but you’re really  _ here _ , in this century, safe with Rachel and asking me to come home and I just--”

Steve takes deep, shuddering breaths and Rachel’s still hiding behind her hands. The silence stretches for a few moments.

“So.” Bucky clears his throat. “Soup?”

Steve cries a little and Bucky stays on the line with him for another few hours even though he can’t manage any more conversation (even though Steve crying is even worse than Rachel crying).

He listens to Steve breathe until they both fall asleep.

* * *

Just a coupla days after the world is shocked by the news that James Buchanan Barnes and The Winter Soldier are the same goddamn person, Steve comes back to New York. 

It’s not strange for Steve to visit his dear old friend Rachel. Nothing suspicious about him making the trek to Brooklyn for dinner instead of staying at Stark Tower.

That’s what Bucky tells himself and Rachel, when Bucky’s fretting over the upcoming visit makes Rachel nervous too.

When his pacing and hand wringing gets to be too much, Rachel shoos him outta the living room. He takes a long shower, letting the hot water sooth the tension in his shoulders. Rachel has helped him pick out all manner of good smelling shampoos and soaps. He uses all of them. He uses all his equally good smelling lotions when he gets out and dries off.

Showering is routine. Good smelling shampoo and soap and lotion is routine. He puts extra lotion on his dry elbow, taking comfort in the familiar motions.

Next he pulls on an undershirt and the thick green sweater Rachel bought him with the wooden clasps at the neck. The jeans are good, the fabric sturdy and the fit too tight, but in a flattering way.

(This is familiar, too, but not part of his 21st century routine. He used to dress carefully for Steve, before he took him out. Except those dates were not actually with Steve, even if the dressing up was definitely for him and not Zelda or whatever dame was on his arm that night.)

Hours before Steve’s due to arrive, Bucky’s got nothing left to do. He feels Rachel’s eyes on him as he takes up pacing around the apartment again, but she doesn’t say anything this time, just watches him wearing a tiny little half smile.

She’s dressed up for the occasion, too, with her hair pinned back and her lips dark red. Her blouse looks silky, in the same red shade as her lips. Rachel looks real nice but Bucky can’t find the words to tell her so. 

Really, it’s a lovely top, the cut flattering and the collar crisp.

Bucky shakes his head and stops staring at Rachel. He could dust again, even though it’s not likely that much has accumulated much since he cleaned this morning. Pushups might make his arms less jittery (the metal one’s been whirring constantly) but if Rachel shooed him over some pacing she probably wouldn’t appreciate him busting out a thousand pushups in a couple minutes.

Rachel sure does look swell and he should really tell her so. Or maybe there’s some speck of dust he overlooked earlier. Or maybe sit ups would be less offensive than pushups. Or--

Bucky gives up on deciding on anything himself right now and moves to stand in front of Rachel.

“Is it time to make dinner yet?” he asks.

“What, you want the matzo balls to cook down into nothing?” She turns back to her boring cooking show. “Do something productive why don’t you.”

“Like what?” Bucky demands, stomping his feet. 

“Clean something?”

“Did that.”

“Read something?”

“No.”

“More knitting.”

“I already finished Steve’s scarf. There’s only ugly yarn left.”

“Well,” says Rachel, patting both her arm rests twice. It’s the Rachel signal that she’s about to attempt some bold show of strength. Like standing up.

Bucky breathes, the tension releasing in his shoulder, because it looks like Rachel’s made a decision.

He holds her cane at the ready, watching intently to see if she’ll need further assistance. But she’s steady today, and stands tall as she looks him over. “Guess we’ll need to do some baking then, won’t we?”

Bucky nods with so much enthusiasm it’s probably embarrassing.

“Shoulda invited him over for lunch instead,” he mutters. Rachel laughs as he walks her to the kitchen.

* * *

When the elevator dings in the hall, Bucky freezes. There’s a knock on the door, and he was expecting Steve to just use his key to come on in, but he’s knocking instead and Bucky can’t fucking stand up. He’s stuck in his seat at the kitchen table. 

Rachel looks him over, raising one eyebrow. Bucky stares back, panicking.

“Come in, bubbeleh!” Hollering like that can’t be good for her old, raspy throat, and Steve could hear her whispering from this distance, but Bucky doesn’t mention it. Her reasons for staying seated are probably more reasonable than Bucky’s, like her bad knees instead of utter  _ panic _ .

Steve appears in the kitchen, looking massive and beautiful. Most of Bucky’s memories include a much smaller Steve, and he’s somehow shocked to see just how big the big version is here in Rachel’s kitchen, like Captain-America-sized Steve only makes sense to him inside a warzone.

He’s so different than the little fella starring in most of Bucky’s memories, and it’s not all just the  _ hugeness  _ of him. There used to be two shiney scars on his chin - one from when he slipped on some ice at age ten, falling face first on the sidewalk, and the other left by the rock some punk kid threw at him on the playground when he was even younger - but his skin’s all uniformly smooth now. He’s got a jawline now, his cheeks filled in and handsome, even though Bucky loved it plenty before. That haircut is a fucking monstrosity.

But Steve’s face is breathtaking, open and earnest and hopeful. He’s nervous, keeps messing with his stupid fucking hair and tugging on the collar of shirt like he’s about to sweat right through it. Time seems to slow down for a moment as Bucky watches Steve’s throat work when he swallows, the cords of his neck shifting when he takes a deep breath.

There’s a book tucked under his arm book and he’s holding a bouquet of flowers. Bucky gapes at them for a second, horrified that in this century Steve thought it would be a good idea to bring Bucky  _ flowers _ of all things, but Steve silently hands them over to Rachel instead, never taking his eyes off Bucky.

Steve has to clear his throat twice before he’s able to murmur, “Isaac Asimov.” He sets the book down on the table and slides it towards Bucky instead of walking closer to hand it to him. 

Maybe Steve doesn’t want to get any closer. Maybe he’s scared like Bucky is that he’ll just get hurt again. Maybe he’s simply as frozen as Bucky in this moment.

“You used to like his magazine pieces. He went on to write books, too.”

Bucky stares down at the book and then stares up at Steve. Or stares  _ near  _ Steve; he’s only able to look at him out of the corner of his eye.

Direct eye contact is a bridge too fucking far,  _ apparently _ .

Bucky’s lost his words again, and when he tries to smile it comes out as a grimace.

“Hey, Rach,” Steve says when Bucky doesn’t reply. Now that he’s got no gift to hold, Steve’s wringing his hands and shifting his weight from foot to foot. 

"Hello," says Rachel. "The flowers are real nice. I'd get up to hug you, but I'm old. Bucky had to do the cooking all on his own. The baking, too. There’s bread and chocolate babka."

“Sounds great.” Steve nods at Rachel, but he’s only got eyes for Bucky.

This, Bucky understands. It's like his own eyeballs are stuck, like the only way he could manage to stop looking near Steve would be to look right at Steve. Only he’s not quite up for something so  _ huge _ yet.

"Hi, Buck," Steve says, soft and quiet.

"Hi, Steve," Bucky says, hoarse and small.

Steve smiles, tears up. His body might be disconcertingly  _ large _ , but that smile.  _ Goddamn _ , Bucky’s always been a sucker for that sweet, lopsided little smile. It echoes in a thousand memories and Bucky’s a little woozy with the rush of remembering all those smiles Steve gave him, when he was kid and when he was a man, when he was tiny and then super sized. In back alleys and in bars and on battlefields. 

Bucky sways slightly in his seat and keeps right on staring.

" _ Hi _ ,” Steve says again.

"We already did that part," Bucky reminds him. Steve already gave him a present. Now it’s his turn, just like he and Rachel practiced. "I made you this." 

Bucky sorta chucks the scarf towards Steve and turns his head to look in the opposite direction, because looking near Steve and throwing something to him at the same time is too much.  _ Apparently _ .

"You made it?" Steve’s careful as he retrieves the scarf from where it landed somewhere on the floor near Rachel’s chair.

"It's a joke,” he explains, even though the best jokes don’t need an explanation. Now that he’s found his words again, too many are coming out. He sounds strange, unhinged, but he keeps talking anyway. “That’s why it’s red, white, and blue. Because you always hated that damn costume. It's a joke scarf."

"I love it. Thank you." Steve’s voice breaks, the tears now leaking out of his eyes evident.

Bucky's head snaps up. He looks to Rachel, eyes wide and horrified. 

"It made him cry!" Bucky hisses like an accusation. He’s got a grand total of half a memory featuring Steve crying right in front of him, and it’s much worse than on the phone a couple nights ago.

"You made him do nothing, James Buchanan. Those’re happy tears. Because he missed you and your present has touched him," she says, calm as anything. As if she is completely at ease with Bucky's horror and Steve's blubbering. “We’ve talked about this, tateleh.”

"She's right, Bucky. I just missed you a lot. And this is a good scarf, jokes or no."

Bucky takes a deep breath and decides to stop overthinking every goddamn thing. That was really working for him when he finally spoke up on the phone. His gut is still screaming for Steve and Steve’s right here, so Bucky  _ listens _ .

Steve’s right here. Standing in the kitchen, a giant, hulking figure, getting all flustered over a lopsided scarf. 

Bucky unclenches his jaw, drops his shoulders, and, somehow, actually manages to look at Steve and smile at the same time.

"Okay.” He stands up and it’s dizzying for a second, to look right at Steve and not down like he expected. The handful of memories from the war he’s got back do nothing to prepare him for Super Sized Steve, not when he’s got dozens and dozens more telling him that Steve’s supposed to be tiny. “We've got soup. Matzo ball soup. From scratch, just like Rachel used to make."

“Okay.” Steve lets out a weird little laugh, delighted and exhausted. He scrubs his hands over his face, runs his fingers through his stupid fucking hair, and then smiles. "Okay."

"Okay," says Rachel with a huff. "It’s time for dinner. Bucky, get the soup. Steve, there’s salad in the icebox. Pick whatever dressing you want. Get out the pickles, too. I want a pickle."

* * *

After dinner, Steve winds his scarf around his neck and Bucky cracks a smile. Rachel hustles them into the living room, like they practiced, and she takes her lift chair, leaving the couch for them. It’s closer to the fireplace anyway. Rachel talks about something that happened decades ago and Bucky busies himself getting a fire going. 

"I like the heat," he murmurs, when he notices Steve eyeing how close he’s getting to the flames. It’s only been a couple of hours but looking at Steve ain’t so hard anymore. Talking to him is as easy as breathing.

When he rejoins Steve on the couch, he sits closer than he thought he could bear. 39.6 centimeters separate them and Steve’s practically glowing, he looks so goddamn happy. His cheeks are pink and he’s slouched low in his seat, like he used to sit before he went and got himself super-soldiered.

This feels like their natural state, seated next to each other on a couch instead of miles and countries and decades apart.

If Bucky’d known adjusting to Steve’s presence woulda been so quick and non-headache inducing, he’d have gotten his shit together months ago.

They reminisce for awhile. Bucky shows off, sharing some long ago memory he’s recovered, preening a little when it delights Steve so goddamn much. It’s almost like following a script: Bucky says  _ do you remember when _ and Steve laughs, saying  _ yeah, yeah, and we did this stupid thing.  _ And Bucky says,  _ you did the stupid thing I’m the reasonable one.  _ And Steve laughs some more.

Bucky thinks they did this plenty at the bar and then some more during the war, between missions, out in the wilderness all hunched around a fire and entertaining the Howlies, trying to distract everyone from the ridiculously dangerous thing they were gonna go do in the morning.

The space separating them on the couch narrows as Bucky scoots closer whenever Steve laughs.

Rachel stays uncharacteristically quiet and goes to bed earlier than she normally would. She kisses Steve's cheek as she murmurs good night, and Bucky glares at her when she kisses his cheek next, just so she knows that she's not sneaky, so she knows that  _ he _ knows she's deliberately leaving them alone. Still, she’s smiling so wide when she shuffles off Bucky’s worried she might hurt herself.

For a few minutes, it’s quiet. Just the crackle of the fire. Bucky's keenly aware of the remaining 27.4 centimeters of space between them on the couch.

Bucky has been practicing the words since the night Steve called to warn them that he was about to be outed as the Winter Soldier, and now he forces them out: "Do you want me to turn myself in?"

The reminiscing was nice. They both deserved it. But Bucky’s been thinking about handing himself over to the feds constantly over the last few days. That’s what the FBI wants and Bucky’s gotta know if that’s what Steve wants, too.

Rachel never explicitly banned him from watching the news –  _ “What, am I your mother or something? You're allowed to do whatever you want, James Buchanan.” _ – but she’s also avoided the television. Instead, it’s been all Netflix and documentaries, nothing airing live. The paper’s been conspicuously absent from the hall every morning, too, and she gently steers him away from internet time as an activity.

Still, Bucky knows that Steve released a statement calling him a hero and a bunch of other sappy bullshit.

He not sure how the whole thing is playing out to the public so far and the thought of turning himself over to some new authority makes his head spin and his breath come in shallow. But if Steve says that it’s what he’s gotta do then that’s what he’ll do, goddamn it.

" _ No _ ," says Steve immediately, sounding horrified. "Is that why you think I'm here? So I can take you in?"

Bucky rolls his eyes. He's the one that invited Steve. He's the one that brought up turning himself in. Steve's the one that's been wanting to see him for  _ months _ . Of course he doesn't think that's why Steve's here.

"No."

Steve waits patiently, but Bucky's lost his words again. He can't say, " _ I trust you. My brains are scrambled eggs, so I can't trust myself to know what's the right call, but I trust you." _

So he just sits there, not explaining any fucking thing and obsessing over the 23.6 centimeters separating them.

"I wouldn’t ask you to do that, Bucky." Steve stares at the fire, the shadows dancing across his skin. He’s beautiful and luminous in the soft light from the flames, a much more manageable size when he’s sitting close to Bucky instead of standing up. "Not unless I was beyond positive that they'd treat you like a soldier finally coming home from war and not—“

"Like the Winter Soldier," Bucky finishes for him. "Like a  _ killer _ ."

Steve lifts his arm, like he's going to bridge the space between them, but then seems to think better of it, letting his hand drop to the couch cushion instead. Bucky frowns at it.

“I don’t trust anyone right now. Not the FBI or the CIA or any other fucking acronym agency. Not the goddamn President himself. No one but the people who already know you’re here.”

Bucky wants to say,  _ Steve, I trust you, _ again. But he can’t so he just nods.

"We don't have to talk about it if you don't want, Buck. I’m handling it. You want to stay here with Rach, right? To be left alone? With the pickles and the knitting and the baking? It seems like you’re really getting better."

Bucky nods rapidly and breathes out a big sigh of relief. His memories tell him that Steve gets it, gets Bucky at least 91.7 percent of the time. It's good to have this evidence to support what his newly filled up head has been screaming at him.

"It’s been good for you here," Steve continues, shifting a little. He pulls one leg up on off the floor, tucking it beneath him as he turns to face Bucky. The new view this move gives Bucky of Steve’s face is good, but the additional space it puts between them is decidedly  _ not _ . "Seems like Rachel's keeping you busy, huh?"

"I like cooking," Bucky replies.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Steve grin. "Yeah, you always did. Mostly because you like eating, and didn't trust me to come up with anything nearly as tasty as you could."

Bucky remembers that. He remembers insisting his Ma teach him how to cook, both because he genuinely wanted to know and because Beck was so miserable about being forced into the kitchen on her own.

"Ma taught me, even though she thought I should be focusing on learning to run the company instead."

“You remember a lot,” Steve whispers. “You remember me.”

Pretty fucking recently in the scheme of their unnaturally long lives, Bucky very obviously did  _ not _ remember Steve. Three gut shots and endless hits to the face with a metal goddamn arm are proof of that.

But then Steve gave up, stopped fighting,  _ fell, fell, fell _ , like Bucky once  _ fell, fell, fell. _ He didn't know his own name in that moment, only knew that he man before him was not allowed to die. 

It overrode everything, all the conditioning and mission parameters and the lessons he was taught over and over again.  _ Noncompliance will not be tolerated. Obey or we'll make you obey. _

_ Captain America must not die. _

All the memories that crashed over him in great waves in the weeks after leaving Steve barely breathing on the shore taught him just why that sentiment was so true.

Bucky would very much like to tell Steve all this. Steve deserves to hear it, after Bucky broke his cheekbones and his nose, after his bullets tore up Steve’s insides.

"Nobody’s allowed to kill you," he manages, turning towards Steve and staring at his collarbone when he can't meet his eye. "That’s all I could remember, when you were in the river. Nobody's allowed to  _ hurt _ you. Especially not me."

Steve shudders and hides his face in his hands for seven and a half long seconds. He takes a raspy breath that sounds like something straight out of The Pneumonia Disaster of 1934, before lifting his head to smile at Bucky.

Steve’s still the most beautiful thing Bucky’s ever seen. He scoots closer.

"I'm sorry I shot you so many times before I figured that out," Bucky murmurs.

Steve laughs, the sound a little watery and a little hysterical. "S'okay, Buck. You remembered when it counted. Can I hug you?"

"You don't want to hug me."

"I really do, honey. More than anything."

"I killed Stark." His voice is flat, but it takes immense force of will to keep his right hand from shaking. The metal one doesn't really do that. “ _ Howard. _ ”

Thinking about turning himself in these last couple days has meant thinking about everything he’s shoved away in that mental box. The things Bucky won’t let himself remember are definitely the things the fucking FBI is pissing themselves to know.

And he’s still doing a pretty damn good job, keeping that all locked up and crossed out like the bad years on the whiteboard timeline, but between Steve’s plans to go to Stark Tower and Steve’s future meeting with Stark’s PR people, what Bucky did to Howard and his wife had leaked through. He can’t put the memories back, especially now that he’s just confessed to killing them.

"Oh," says Steve.

"And his wife. I remember her face, but not her name. Howard called me Sergeant Barnes before I smashed his head in."

Bucky threw up when he remembered, but that was a couple days ago and now all he does is shake a little.

“Jesus.” Steve’s hands go to fists. He presses them into his thighs. “It wasn’t you. It wasn’t your choice.”

Bucky shrugs and stares at the fire.

“That makes me want to hug you even more, honestly.”

“Yeah?”

“Can I?”

This time when Bucky attempts a nod, it must actually come out as a nod because Steve immediately scoots closer, diminishing the remaining 22.96 centimeters down to nothing. He's so big and so gentle as he gets his arms around Bucky's shoulders, tugging until Bucky unfreezes enough to crumple against him.

He ends up breathing into Steve's neck, his metal arm tucked safely away between the couch cushions. He lets his other hand wander, over Steve's chest and up the other side of his neck, down his shoulder, reminding himself that this body is not for warzones. This is  _ Steve _ .

Steve cries silently, his shoulders shaking and his tears ending up in Bucky's hair and the crying thing still makes Bucky want to flee the fucking country, but mostly he remembers what Rachel taught him. Sometimes crying is cathartic. Bucky didn’t let Steve come home for months (and before that Bucky left Steve on the shore of the river and before that Steve watched Beck die and before that Steve woke up after decades all on his own and before that Steve watched Bucky die and before that, and before that, and before that). 

He obviously needs to cry about it a little right now.

Bucky doesn’t really do the whole crying thing anymore, but he’s got this pull in his chest, demanding that he get as close to Steve as possible. Just this morning, he was wary about being in the same apartment as Steve, but now it’s like a stranger was the one keeping his distance. He can’t quite recall what he was so goddamn scared of.

Distance from Steve is obviously very bad.

Bucky crawls closer, into Steve's lap, and when that's not good enough, he makes Steve lie on his back. Bucky curls up on top of him, hiding his face in Steve's neck again. Steve runs his fingers through Bucky's hair and murmurs, "I missed you, I missed you. I missed you so much I couldn't breathe."

Bucky wants to say, “ _ I ached for you when I didn't even know what it was to want.” _  Instead he just lets himself rest for awhile.

* * *

The fire dies out and Bucky’s fighting his own eyelids, struggling to stay awake and not miss a moment now that Steve’s really here with him. Steve - huge and alive, right here and touching Bucky, not just an image on a screen or a few text messages or a wisp of a memory, quickly stolen by The Chair - is breathing steady beneath Bucky’s cheek. He runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair, and smells just like he did in 1940. Bucky could close his eyes and almost believe that they’re back in their drafty little apartment, except for the sheer girth of the man holding him.

Steve’s here and Bucky’s so goddamn relieved. He doesn’t want the time to end, doesn’t want to fall asleep.

Although that’s a goddamn uphill battle because he hasn’t slept in thirty two hours, too busy staring at the ceiling and fretting about seeing Steve again and beating back those memories to get any decent shut eye last night or during his nap.

Steve’s here and it’s great, but it’s also really fucking with Bucky’s routine.

He turns his head towards Steve’s chest, hiding his face. Maybe he can get away with closing his eyes for just a minute. Sixty-seconds, and then he’ll be awake enough to appreciate Steve in all his glory.

“It’s getting late,” Steve whispers into his hair.

Bucky opens his eyes, panics a little, and squeezes Steve so hard he’d be cracking the ribs of a slightly less super-soldiered fella.

“Look.” Steve sits up and pulls away, keeping his hands on Bucky’s shoulders but putting enough distance between them to look Bucky in the eye.

Bucky can look back for a whole three seconds now, before he’s got to take a break to stare at Steve’s collarbone.

“I told you I’m gonna be in the city for awhile, putting the Hydra hunting on hold to give some interviews.”

Bucky winces. Steve runs his thumb along the line of Bucky’s jaw.

“I know it’s a lot, being around me, so I was thinking I’d stay with Tony at the Tower,” he says. “In the city.”

Bucky frowns, looks at Steve for another three seconds, and says, “ _ Or _ .”

Steve perks right up. “Or?” he says, all sunshine and rainbows and hope.

“Or you could just stay here,” Bucky says.

“You sure?” 

“Just stay.” Bucky’s voice is so hoarse. “I want you to.”

It’s the truth. Steve’s rocketed to the very tippy-top of his new and ever-growing list of wants.

Steve looks too awestruck to do anything but nod and when Bucky crawls off him, getting to his feet and offering Steve a hand up, Steve scrambles to take it. He keeps his hand in Bucky’s, following him down the hall to the bedrooms.

But then he reaches for the bedroom door knob and Steve gets weird again.

“Um, I can, well.” Steve clears this throat as they both pause awkwardly in the hall outside the closed bedroom door. “I can sleep in the guest room,” Steve manages. His ears are pink.

Bucky stares at them for a few long seconds, pleased that the serum didn’t rid Steve of his blushing.

“But this is your room,” Bucky says. “And that’s mostly a gym.”

Steve shrugs. “I haven’t actually lived here in a long time.”

“Sorry,” Bucky mutters, staring at his toes. Steve woulda come home the moment Rachel called him at the beginning of the summer, if Bucky’d given the okay. He’s stayed away from his home for so long because that’s what Bucky needed. It was selfish, unfair, and certainly not a kindness Bucky deserved, even if the time apart did help him sort out some memories.

“Don’t be sorry,” Steve insists. “You don’t have a thing to be sorry for.”

“Still don’t want you sleeping in the gym.” Bucky crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the closed bedroom door. “If you don’t wanna sleep with me, I’ll stay in the gym.”

Steve frowns. He looks ridiculous when he frowns, his whole face drooping down, from his eyebrows to the corners of his mouth. 

Bucky doesn’t know how he managed to survive so long, without being able to stare at Steve for three whole seconds consecutively and think his frowning looks ridiculous.

“Who says I don’t want to sleep with you?”

Bucky shrugs and goes back to staring at the floor. “You suggested sleeping somewhere else, not me, pal.”

“I was  _ trying _ to be polite.” Steve huffs. He’s cute when he’s frustrated, all puffed up and flustered. “Just because we shared a bed a long time ago don’t mean I think we’ve got to now.”

“Well ain’t that gallant of you.”

“Bucky!”

“Will you keep it down? You’re gonna wake Rachel.”

Steve sighs and goes silent. Now he’s the one staring at the floor. It’s easier to look at Steve when Steve’s not looking back, so Bucky stares his fill for a few moments while Steve pouts.  Then he reaches out, tugging on Steve’s wrist until he stumbles forward, following Bucky into the bedroom.

Steve’s still got a toothbrush here, and they stand side by side at the counter, brushing. Steve stares at him through their reflection. Bucky watches out of the corner of his eye, and feels like they’ve done this before, without explicitly remembering a specific moment.

Bucky leans into Steve’s side, and watches Steve smile around his toothbrush.

“My side of the bed is the left,” Bucky says as he remembers it, when they’re back in the bedroom. “Right?”

“Right.”

“Wait, I thought it was left.”

“Right, I was saying right as in you’re correct, it’s the left not the right.”

“Oh, right.”

Steve leans back on his heels, studying Bucky. “Are you pulling a  _ Who’s On First _ here?”

Smirking, Bucky shrugs down at his bare feet. He didn’t know he remembered the comedy routine until Steve said it, but that’s absolutely what he’s doing.

“Okay, Abbott,” Steve says, shaking his head and chuckling. He slips into bed - the right side - and pulls down the covers, patting the mattress. “Get in.”

“I’m obviously Costello.”

Steve laughs again and Bucky crawls into bed, settling on his side facing Steve and pulling the thick comforter up to his ears. Steve leans over him and turns off the light on the bedside table.  

“I missed you,” Steve whispers for about the millionth time since dinner. He reaches out to run his thumb over Bucky’s cheek and Bucky shudders.

“Don’t start all that up again.” Bucky sighs and tilts his head back, away from Steve’s fingers.

They never did finish the whole  _ turning himself in _ conversation. Bucky might manage to find his goddamn words in the dark, but not if Steve’s gonna keep insisting on being so painfully gentle with him. Not if Steve keeps touching him like that, the second person to touch him nicely in seventy years after Rachel.

And Rachel certainly doesn’t go around touching him like this.

“Everyone knows now,” he manages, “what I did. The whole country. The whole goddamn world.” And there, right on fucking schedule, is Steve’s Sad Smile. The most heartbreaking goddamn thing, clearly there on his face even in the dark. Bucky shuts his eyes. “They all know.  _ I _ barely even know, and now it's out there.”

“It wasn’t you.”

“Steve.”

“It wasn’t! You’re as much a victim as everyone they made you hurt, if not more so!”

Bucky does not have the words to explain. Maybe he never will. This ain’t just a blip in time where his fucked up brain makes speaking impossible for awhile. It’s a genuine inability to make Steve understand what it was like.

He was there. He lived it. He believed them when they told him he was doing good work, important work, that he would ultimately save humanity. He stopped fighting them because it hurt too much and then, later, because he’d forgotten how. And long after he gave up and gave in, some small, hidden part of him was always screaming, desperate for it to be over, desperate for a way out.

The Winter Solider is James Buchanan Barnes, stripped of all memory and all context and all agency.  

It wasn’t his choice. But it sure as shit was still him.

(He keeps that mental box shut tight, forcing all the details to stay lost, all the memories to remain forgotten.)

“I don’t think I can do it,” he whispers.

“Do what, honey?”

Bucky takes a big breath, closes his eyes, and presses close to Steve. “I lose my words sometimes. Talking’s hard.”

“Yeah.”

“And what the feds want me to talk about. I don’t really remember it. Remembering hurts. I try not to.”

“Yeah,” Steve says again. “I mean, I saw the whiteboard.”

“But maybe someday. Maybe I could think about thinking about it. Someday. Maybe.” 

Even the  _ maybe _ of it all makes him sweaty and headachey.

“Whatever you want, Buck. Whatever you want.”

He knows that if he ever wants the sort of life where he can walk freely out on the streets or take Steve and Rachel out to a nice meal, he’ll have to come forward. He’ll have to barter for his freedom, with only his locked-tight memories for currency. Hiding behind the Bob mask ain’t sustainable, and so far he’s done a damn good job taking it one day at a time, but with Steve here in his bed again, it’s impossible to not think about the future.

“I think I need to go to sleep now, pal,” Bucky whispers, pressing his forehead into Steve’s chest. “Welcome home.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “You too.”

* * *

**1936**

Uncle Tommy’s a decent fella. Even with all the wild nights and gambling and fighting, he’s a good one. He’s always got a cabinet full of liquor, for one. And he’s always ready to play hooky for a day of drinking through said cabinet.

It’s their second morning waking up at Tommy’s apartment. The place is small, just a studio in Bed-Stuy, but it's close to the market and nice enough, with big windows and a private bathroom off the kitchen. Sure, its nowhere near as nice as the brownstone where Bucky had been living with his family since he was twelve. But it’s miles fancier than any place he and Steve will be able to afford, now.

Steve’s up at the crack of dawn, an impressive feat given how much they had to drink last night. Bucky gets an eye open, watching Steve fold up the blankets where he slept on the couch and then pull on his shoes.

(His ma -  _ Winnie _ \- got Steve new boots for Christmas. At least they won’t have to worry about Steve stuffing newspaper in an old pair to make them fit a little better and to keep him a little warmer this winter.)

Steve glances over to the bed, where Bucky’s face is still mashed into a pillow and Tommy’s snoring away next to him. He tiptoes closer when he sees that Bucky’s got one eye open, kneeling down next to the bed. Steve runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair and Bucky lets him, even though he shouldn’t, even though he vowed to never go there again with Steve.

But it’s early and his head hurts and it's nice, a reminder that they’re in this together, at least. He lets himself be weak for just a few seconds with Steve’s fingers in his hair.

“I’m headed out,” Steve whispers in his ear. “Gonna find a job.”

“Okay.” It hits Bucky suddenly that he’s never once had to find a job. He’s been working for his parents since he was eight years old and up until a few days ago, he thought he’d be working for their company for the rest of his life.

Bucky’s got no idea how to get a job. Doesn’t even know where to start.

“You gonna go out later?” Steve asks.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “Gonna make Tommy some breakfast first. Least I can do, with the way he’s letting us stay and getting us drunk.”

Steve actually smiles. It might be his first smile in two days.

He tugs gently on Bucky’s hair, his thumb grazing Bucky’s temple, and then he’s gone, off to get a job.

Rolling over, Bucky stares at the ceiling for another couple hours trying to figure out where to even start with finding a job and wondering if Rebecca is sleeping in this morning or if she’s up early to get some reading in before school, wondering what Winnie’s making for breakfast and if she gets to sleep a little later now that she doesn’t have to make Bucky’s lunch along with everyone else's. One lunch probably won’t make much of a difference. He wonders if any trucks have broken down in the last two days, and hopes that Tateh’s had to stay up well into the night to fix them all on his own. Bucky hopes his father’s so tired his eyeballs hurt.

He stares at the ceiling until Tommy’s sawing wood gets to be too much. He hauls himself out of bed, stumbles through making breakfast, and then Tommy joins him in the kitchen just as the oatmeal’s ready, Bucky doesn’t complain when Tommy tips a generous splash of whiskey into his coffee mug.

* * *

“Come on, come on,” Tommy says, laughing and slurring. He reaches across the couch, squeezing Bucky’s shoulder, making Bucky’s head loll around against the cushions. ”What happened? It can’t of been all that bad. Your ma adores you.”

Bucky shakes his head and wants more whiskey. Tommy’s ruining it, goddamn it. He’s a happy drunk and it’s been a good day, but Tommy’s absolutely ruining it with his questions. 

Around noon, when Bucky’d glanced at the clock, horrified to still be in his pajamas instead of pounding the pavement for a job, Tommy said, “You can’t call it drinking all day unless you start in the morning. And no lunch breaks either!” And Bucky laughed and laughed, like this was the funniest shit Tommy or anyone had ever said in the history of western civilization. And somehow he spent the rest of the day laughing and drinking.

The sun’s starting to set and Bucky’s done nothing but drink and laugh, until Tommy had to go and start talking about his mother.

“No, no,” Bucky says, shaking his head vehemently. “She doesn’t adore me  _ at all _ .”

“Sure she does. One silly fight won’t go changing that.”

“She thinks I’m  _ disgusting _ .”

Tommy laughs and doesn’t even seem to notice that Bucky’s not joining in this time.

“I remember when you were born, boy-o,” Tommy continues. He tries to refill both their glasses and then frowns when he finds the bottle empty. “All red faced and squealing. Thought you were the ugliest thing I’d ever laid me eyes on, but you shoulda seen the look on your ma’s face when I voiced this opinion. She’d go to war to keep you from harm, JB. She’d pull people apart with her own bloody hands.”

Bucky will not cry in front of his uncle. He refuses to do it and settles for just shaking his head some more, closing his eyes and feeling the world spin around him.

“And your da, too. You know, George Barnes was the closest thing I ever had to a da meself? We came over here when I was just a lad, and my brothers taught me plenty, but they were a bit rough and tumble for a kid, you know? Your da was gentle. I had to of been all of fifteen the first time the cops picked me up and your mom boxed my ears good for that one, but your da. He just taught me how to play chess and explained how to not get caught the next time. Good man, your da.”

“Tommy,” Bucky says, turning his head to glare. “If you don’t shut the hell up about how great my parents are, I swear I’ll break that empty bottle over your thick skull.”

“Empty bottle,” Tommy repeats, lurching to his feet. “That won’t do.”

When Steve comes through the front door a minute later, Tommy’s still rustling around in the kitchen and Bucky’s breathing deep, just trying not to puke all over the couch. Steve’s gonna be sleeping here tonight. Bucky can’t go puking where Steve’s gonna sleep tonight.

“Steve-o!” Tommy yells from the kitchen.

“Hey.” Steve nods in Tommy’s direction, all pink-cheeked and perfect. He’s got eyelashes longer than any dames, blue eyes and a pink mouth, so vibrant and bright, like one of those fancy art paintings he likes so much. 

But Bucky can’t be noticing all that anymore. He’s gotta come up with some rules or something, to train himself to not want to touch when he sees Steve, standing there like a masterpiece.

“You two start the party without me?” Steve asks, hanging his coat up on the rack.

“You can’t say you’ve drunk all day if you don’t start in the morning!” Tommy yells, his head in the icebox. 

Steve frowns, taking the seat next to Bucky. He sits too close. That’s gotta be against the new rules Bucky hasn’t come up with yet. 

“It’s a little early to be back in your pjs, Buck.” Steve’s speaking very slowly, studying Bucky with a critical eye and Bucky thinks he might be sick. His ma thinks he’s disgusting and his father thinks it’s in his nature to hurt little kids and now he’s gone and disappointed Steve too, the one good thing he’s got going for him. “Unless you never actually got dressed this morning.”

Bucky groans and squeezes his eyes shut, tight as they’ll go.

“What the hell, Bucky!” Steve yells. “I’ve been busting my ass all day, trying to find work, and you’ve been drinking you life away with your moronic uncle!”

“Hey!” Tommy protests from the kitchen.

“And I did find a job, thank you very much. Sweeping the floors at a grocery all the way in Red Hook. Found a couple places with rooms opening up around there, too, and what have you done? Nothing, that’s what! Do you even remember what it’s like to be poor? We both need jobs, you fucking drunkard!”

He nods along with Steve’s rant because it’s the absolute truth. He’s useless without his parents’ money and his parents’ company. Steve’s probably gonna work himself to death in the winter trying to take care of the pair of them because Bucky doesn’t even know how to start looking for a fucking job.

“I mean  _ really _ , Bucky!” Steve yells, all worked up, hands flailing around his head.

“Whoa, whoa,” Tommy says, sauntering back over as he tosses raisins into his mouth. “Good job, Bucky. You really managed to piss off the little missus!”

It’s just a joke. Just a bad joke, like the thousands Tommy’s told before at Steve’s expense, but this time it really makes Bucky sick to his stomach. He leaps to his feet, bounding through the apartment and making to the toilet just in time.

There ain’t much in his stomach to come up, but Bucky just stays like that, head in the toilet for awhile after he’s done. It seems like a fitting location, given the current state of his life.

He doesn’t hear Steve slip in behind him, but his hand is warm on Bucky’s shoulder. When Steve tugs, Bucky sits up.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry I’m so useless. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Hey, hey,” Steve says, fingers in Bucky’s hair. “You’re not useless. Not at all. I’m sorry I yelled so much, it was just a long day.”

“And I ain’t pulling my weight.”

“You’re entitled to drink one day away every once and awhile, given you’ve spent your whole life working hard. But you seem like you’re in bad shape over this, Buck. What--”

“Don’t you go asking me what happened with my parents.” Bucky pulls away from Steve’s hand and leans back against the counter. The lights in the tiny bathroom are blindly bright so Bucky closes his eyes and rides out the spins. He holds his head in his hands, trying to summon the courage to at least meet Steve’s eyes.

“Okay.” Steve sits down next to him, shoulder to shoulder on the grimy bathroom floor. This apartment would be far nicer if Tommy mopped every once and awhile. “I just hate to see you so miserable.”

“I’m fine.”

Steve just rolls his eyes and lets out a skeptical snort.

“I mean it.” And in this moment, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Steve, it ain’t even a lie. “You’re here.”

“Yup,” Steve says, grinning. “Right here on this dirty floor with you.”

It seemed like an utterly impossible feat just a couple of minute ago, but somehow Steve still manages to make him laugh.

“I’ll find work.” Bucky vows, turning to face Steve. This the the last night he’ll go around feeling sorry for himself. No more moping and whining, after this. He’s done with his family and there’s no use crying about it any longer. Tomorrow he’ll get a job and maybe he’ll coax a few smiles outta Steve and Steve will make him laugh. “I’ll look for a job tomorrow. I’ll find work.” 

Steve’s so certain when he says, “I know you will.” If Bucky could manage to believe in himself half as much as Steve believes in him, well, he’d have a job in an hour tomorrow, he’d be a millionaire by 1938.

“We’re in this together,” Bucky says.

“I know we are.”

“Till the end of the thing.”

And that gets Steve laughing. “The thing.”

“You know, you know.” Bucky bumps their shoulders together. “The end the line, or whatever. Hey, Steve?”

“Yeah, Buck?”

“I think I need to go to sleep now, pal.”

Steve helps him to his feet and Bucky’s determined to make tomorrow better.

* * *

He manages to get outta bed a full five minutes before Steve. They are dressed and ready for the day before the sun’s all the way up, moving around quietly to keep from waking their host. Not that there’s much chance of that. Tommy hadn’t stumbled home till well after three.

“Do you work today?” Bucky asks, pulling the apartment door closed behind them when they get out into the hall.

“Naw, not until tomorrow,” Steve replies, doing up the buttons on his jacket. “Figured I’d go out with you on this job hunt. We’re in this together, after all. Till the end of the thing, or whatever.”

With that Steve sets off towards the staircase, a bounce in his step. Bucky trails behind him, and despite his hangover and lack of job, he’s smiling, following Steve and musing on how lucky he really is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter got huge, which means I split it in two, which means chapter 5 should be up real soon! It's written and being cleaned up as we speak!
> 
> Thank you so very much for reading.


	5. Chapter 5

0830, the alarm goes off, and Bucky open his eyes.

They never shut the drapes the night before, and the sun’s streaming in, bright this morning even though there’s a layer of frost on the fire escape outside. Inside, it’s warm. Bucky’s got one of Steve’s legs between both of his and it smells like 1940, smells like Steve. Bucky noses into Steve’s side and breathes in deep.

Steve’s sitting up with his back to the headboard. He’s got a notepad in his lap and there’s a little furrow between his brows. He’s concentrating hard, annoyed about something not working right in his sketch.

The expression is familiar. And so is the  _ skritch skritch skritch _ of his pencil on paper. And so is waking up like this, curled close to Steve while he draws.

(He’s a little alarmed that he somehow slept through Steve fetching the art supplies, but he doesn’t have it in him to fret about anything on an otherwise perfect morning, with Bucky’s mind quiet and Steve close, drawing just like he used to.)

“Good morning,” Steve whispers. He glances up from the paper in his lap to smile shyly at Bucky, ducking his chin and blushing a little before he goes digging around in the sheets, coming up with a grey kneaded eraser. His movements are jerky, almost nervous, and he keeps rolling the eraser between his palms, long after it's a smooth sphere.

Maybe he’s feeling unsure this morning, or wary of Bucky, or overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of everything that’s happened since the last time they woke up like this.

Maybe, like Bucky, Steve thinks being together just seems too good to be true.

Despite waking up to a perfect morning with his head calm, his memories quiet, and Steve warm at his side, Bucky still can’t open his mouth and find his words. There seems to be no rhyme or reason for his sudden bursts of linguistic desertion, and he’s learning to just roll with it.

Instead of returning Steve’s  _ good morning _ and telling him how lovely it is to wake up next to him and begging him never to leave the apartment again and asking Steve if he’s nervous, if he’s okay, Bucky just smiles, bashful. His cheeks burn and he presses closer to Steve, hiding his face against Steve’s side.

“No nightmares, huh?” Steve asks.

Bucky shakes his head. Steve runs his fingers through his hair, the motion soothing, and Bucky sighs. He feels like he could fall right back to sleep.

“Yeah, me neither. You coulda slept later,” Steve says, even as the  _ skritch skritch skritch _ starts up again. With Steve’s fingers gone back to sketching, it’s easier to remember why it’s time to wake up.

Bucky shakes his head and Steve waits, like he’s expecting Bucky to elaborate.

“Oh right, you and Rach have your routine.” He chuckles and keeps drawing. “You feeling quiet today, pal?”

Bucky nods.

“Okay,” Steve says. “I hope you don’t mind, but I found this sketchbook in the closet. Figured I could borrow it.”

Bucky huffs.

“You got it for me?” Steve guesses.

Bucky rolls his eyes and blows his hair out of his face. Steve grins.

“Thanks, Buck. You know…” He trails off and looks down at the notebook open in his lap. He clears his throat and stops messing with his sketch to put his fingers back in Bucky’s hair. “This is pretty much the first time I picked up a pencil in this century, you know? First time I’ve drawn for real, not just some stupid, mindless doodle.”

Bucky winces, his chest tight and his throat burning as he tries to swallow because thinking about Steve’s pain is  _ hard _ . He’s spent months here with Rachel, tending to his own hurts and just leaving Steve out in the cold on his own. Everything he is still screams at him to take care of Steve Rogers aka The Lump aka Captain America, and he hasn’t been able to until now.

So Bucky sits up, shuffles close to Steve’s side, rests his open palm against Steve’s chest, and waits.

“I didn’t feel like it, until you came home. I thought I’d lost it. Lost the will or that creative energy that drove me to draw, even in the trenches. I just thought the ice killed it, or something. And then I saw this stack of notebooks in the closet and I just picked it up without thinking.”

He covers Bucky’s hand, squeezing a little, and then tilts the sketch towards Bucky so he can see it. It’s just the rough outlines of the skyline out their window. Simple, but accurate enough that Bucky can clearly tell what it’s supposed to be.

“I’m fucking rusty,” Steve mutters. “Was gonna draw you, but figured I needed to work my way up to people.”

Bucky also needs to work his way up to people. He started with Rachel and begrudgingly added Tam and some of the kids from downstairs and now he’s got Steve in his bed. 

Steve’s gonna be back to sketching Bucky from every angle in no goddamn time.

Without any real warning, Steve tosses aside the notebook as his hands start shaking. 

“ _ Shit,”  _ he says, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s shoulders. “C’mere.”

His voice wavers, like he’s fighting tears, and Bucky reels a little even as he returns the hug. He’s unable to understand how Steve could suddenly be so upset when Bucky is so happy and this morning is so perfect.

Steve hides in the crook of Bucky’s neck and Bucky rubs his back, listening to him breathe, deep and even, like he’s counting. Just like Rachel taught Bucky to breathe when his skin feels too tight and his chest fills up with panic. He wonders if Steve got this lesson in breathing from Rachel too.

“I just can’t believe you’re here,” Steve murmurs, not for the first time. He exhales hot on Bucky’s skin and he’s not shaking anymore. “I’m just, amazed.  _ Amazed _ . And I’m sitting here, thinking about how fucking  _ lucky _ I am to have you back but it ain’t luck for you. They hurt you so much.”

Bucky winces, wishing more than anything that Steve had never discovered the details of what that hurt looked like. Months ago, when Bucky first found his way back to Brooklyn, Steve mentioned a Winter Solider file over one of their nightly phone calls, one that he surely read over and over, memorizing every detail and internalizing every injustice. Knowing Steve, it probably fueled the fury that had him hunting down Hydra without mercy and kept him up at night, miserable and guilty and alone. 

Now, Bucky wonders if Steve can even look at him without seeing the aftermath of it all. Is it obvious that Bucky was brutalized by his captors and then brutal to his victims? Are the last seventy years apparent in the way Bucky moves now, the way he can’t always talk and needs to hide under tables and clings to the stability of his routine?

But his words are just out of reach, so he can’t ask. It‘s just as well, given that he probably doesn’t want to fucking know what Steve sees when he looks at Bucky these days.

Although it would be nice to have the ability to whisper soothing, comforting words in Steve’s ear. To say,  _ I dunno, pal. I’m feeling pretty fucking lucky right now.  _ All he can do is hold Steve a little tighter.

Steve tucks his head under Bucky’s chin and goes soft, letting Bucky arrange them against the pillows. He presses his lips to Steve’s hair line and hums a little nonsense ditty low in his throat.

They stay like that until Rachel’s bedroom door opens down the hall. Bucky sits up abruptly, glancing at the clock to see it’s already 0845, time to make breakfast. He glances rapidly between the door and Steve, his heart rate picking up. Steve seems to need him right here, but Rachel needs him too, plus that’s the routine and lounging in bed for hours is not in the routine but maybe exceptions should be made and--

“Hey,” Steve says, sitting up and pulling away. He nods towards the closed bedroom door. “Go on.”

Bucky gnaws on his lip and frowns at Steve, wracked with indecision.

“I’m fine,” Steve says, and Bucky would not believe him except he’s smiling, wide and fond and lopsided, maybe his first true smile of the morning. “I mean it, Buck. I’m just gonna wash up and I’ll be right behind you.”

Bucky lets out a big breath, relaxing muscle by muscle. He gives Steve one last hug and then leaps outta bed. He’s so frantic about getting to Rachel and starting breakfast that he trips a little on his way out the door, leaving Steve cackling behind him.

And he didn’t even give himself time to brush his teeth.

* * *

 

It should be strange, how easy it is. Steve fits seamlessly into the routine. Bucky thought there would be akward moments, or it’d take them some time to feel comfortable around each other again, but it’s beautifully, shockingly, easy.

Bucky doesn’t trust it.

Steve squeezes Bucky’s shoulder when he appears at 0855. Then he slides into the chair next to Rachel while Bucky stirs up batter for pancakes. He wishes Rachel good morning and blushes when Rachel smirks and says, “Bet you haven’t slept that good since 1941, huh, Steve?” and he blushes some more as he says, “Come  _ on _ , Rach.” 

And it’s like Steve’s been here for months right along with Bucky.

Bucky delivers a coffee mug. Steve gets an arm around his waist, squeezing gently, murmuring, “Thanks Buck,” before he starts talking to Rachel about Natasha Romanov. 

(Codename: Black Widow. Born in the Red Room. Midwifed by James Fucking Buchanan Barnes when he didn’t know himself. Bucky keeps the memories locked up tight.)

Steve’s fingers find skin under Bucky’s sweatshirt at his hip, the contact warm and comforting. The touch is almost absent, like an instinct. Bucky leans into it and Rachel watches them even as she nods along at Steve. She’s got tears in her eyes and a big smile on her face, but Bucky hates to see her cry even if the tears are the happy kind so he glares at her with his most murderous expression until she cuts that shit out.

Rachel rolls her eyes at him and keeps on smiling as she turns her attention back to Steve.  Bucky begrudgingly moves away and goes back to preparing breakfast.

They all settle together around the table, like a scene straight outta 1940. Bucky watches with deep satisfaction as Steve digs in, all smiles now, like he wasn’t counting out his breaths just half an hour ago. 

It’s nice, until halfway through his second helping of pancakes, Steve’s phone rings.

“It’s Nat,” he says, like talking about the little red spider summoned her. “Better take this.” 

Steve slips out onto the balcony as he answers and Bucky pouts, stabbing a bite of pancake over and over again. “He oughtta take a coat. It’s freezing. He ain’t even wearing any goddamn shoes.”

Rachel very much looks like she wants to tease him for getting so fussy, but somehow she refrains.

“This is weird,” Bucky whispers at her, hoping Steve can’t hear with the little spider hissing in his ear.

“What’s weird?”

“This. Steve.  _ Us _ . It’s too easy, you know? I should be more freaked out or something.”

“Don’t you do that,” Rachel scolds, shaking her head and wagging a finger at him. “Don’t go borrowing trouble, James Buchanan. This is so easy because being around Steve is your natural state of being. And because you’ve been preparing to see him for months. It seems easy now because you worked so hard for it. You deserve easy things, tateleh. Just let yourself have this with him, why don’t you?”

It’s good advice. Rachel’s a wise old bat but Bucky frowns, unconvinced.

“Do you have any idea what this means to me?” Rachel whispers and Bucky turns to look at her because she sounds so small and so young suddenly. 

She’s been a goddamn pillar of strength since Bucky found his way back home, brave and unwavering even with her mind far away. Hearing her voice break now makes Bucky’s chest feel so tight. Sure, they’ve had some moments, both mourning Rebecca, but with everything related to Steve, Rachel’s been so steady and so calm.

Now, she’s breathing shallow and wiping tears from her eyes, even as she smiles at him.

“When I first met Steve, he thought he just had this hopeless crush on his best pal,” Rachel says.

“Me,” Bucky whispers.

“Yes, you. It was just a dream for Steve then, and kinda a dream for me too, because I needed so badly to believe in happy endings for people like us. So to see the two of you grow into the couple you were.  _ Well _ . It was inspiring back then, the way you two loved each other.”

“It was?” Bucky whispers.

“Did you know that when I first got together with your sister, I recognized the kind of love I had for her because I’d spent so much time around you and Steve? I’d seen it first hand. I knew what I wanted, and I found it with Beck. Just like you found it with Steve.”

“Oh,” Bucky whispers.

“Those were the worst days of my life, when they told us that you were both gone.” Rachel’s voice breaks again, her eyes glassy, gaze far away. She looks wrecked, shattered, and Bucky shatters right along with her. He jerks toward her, scrambling to take her hand and only settling when she gives him a small smile, squeezing gently. “I do not have the words to describe how devastating it was to lose my family that way. And I know you and Steve both have endured so much, horrors I cannot fathom, but to have you both back now, here and home and together. It’s everything to me.  _ Everything _ .”

She takes a deep breath. Beneath his fingers, he can feel her bones shift through her smooth, thin skin.

“This is a happy moment, tateleh,” she says, voice returning to its typical confident tenor. “You’ve reunited with the love of your life and I’ve got my family back. Let’s just enjoy it, yes? Let it be easy, because there’s plenty out there that’ll be so hard. Let yourself have this, okay?”

Bucky nods and resolves to let it be easy, goddamn it.

* * *

 

It’s easy to let Steve do the dishes. And to talk Steve into reading them Harry Potter and to get him to lie down with Bucky during the afternoon nap. Dinner is easy and watching Chaplin movies afterwards, cozied up together on the couch and a fire roaring, is easy. Bedtime is easy.  Sleep is easy.

It’s all very easy, until Steve has to leave in the morning. He’s meeting with Stark’s PR people and then it’s his first of many interviews in the afternoon.

“So, you’re off to defend my honor?” Bucky leans against the closet doorframe, watching Steve dig around inside. His alarm won’t go off for another hour, but there’s no way he could sleep with Steve’s departure imminent.

“Yup.” Steve turns around, holding one of Bucky’s many Frankie Barnes sweaters. This one’s grey, and too big on Bucky. Its sleeves are extra long so he can hide his hands. He absolutely wants Steve to wear it. “Can I?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky says, shaking his head and smirking. “Always stealing my shit.”

Steve’s ears turn pink and Bucky remains fascinated by the color. “I could never wear your clothes outside our apartment before. I looked ridiculous, drowning in your huge shirts.”

Steve pulls the sweater on over his head and he certainly ain’t drowning in anything now.

“I think I liked you in my shirts,” Bucky murmurs. He’s immersed for a moment in a memory of Steve in his uniform shirt. He remembers peeling it off Steve’s narrow shoulders and pulling it on, buttoning it up with steady hands despite the way his heart was beating out of control in his throat. He remembers kissing Steve (for what he thinks was the last time while he was still small) and getting on a boat and going to war.

He wants more of the memory, what happened before he left that led to Steve drowning in that shirt, but he knows better now than to push.

“I like you in my sweaters that fit like they’re made for you, too,” Bucky admits, tugging on the hem of the sweater when Steve gets close enough.

Steve laughs and kisses his temple and lingers for a moment, swaying gently with his hands on Bucky’s hips. He’s gone too soon, grabbing his boots and sitting on the end of their perfectly made bed so he can pull them on.

“They gonna let you go on television for a serious interview in a sweater?” Bucky asks. He’s still leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, just facing the other direction now. Steve’s nimble fingers make quick work of the laces. It’s very distracting.

“They’ll put me in a suit I’m sure.” Steve sighs. “Slap some makeup on my face. But I might as well be comfortable for all my interview prep in the morning.”

Bucky frowns, because Steve’s really leaving and it might just be for the day but Bucky absolutely does not fucking like it.

“Have you considered not going at all, and just staying here forever?” Bucky asks.

Steve gets all soft around his sharp edges, his eyes crinkled at the corners and his grin a little lopsided. He comes close, getting his fingers through the belt loops of Bucky’s jeans. 

“I don’t particularly want to go talk about…well, you know what they’re gonna ask me about. But I gotta set the record straight. The public thinks you're some sort of war criminal and it ain’t right. I won't stand for it.”

Bucky sighs. “I  _ am _ a war criminal.”

“No, you’re not. And it’s important that people know who the real enemy is. They’re looking to make you the scapegoat for the whole Hydra debacle in DC last summer, and that’s just bad for everyone. It’s bad for you and it’s bad for me and it makes it easier for Hydra to go back to working in the shadows and I won’t let it happen.”

Steve getting all ruffled up and Captain America-like. Bucky rests his hand on Steve’s chest to feel his heart beating.

“You can’t even say the words Winter Solider to me,” he whispers. “How’re you gonna do it on television to millions of Americans?”

Steve clenches his jaw. “I’ll be fine.”

“Just don’t go around punching any reporters out if you don’t like the way they’re talking about me, alright. We don’t both need to be wanted by the FBI.”

Steve wraps him in a hug and they stand there in the bedroom for a few long minutes. He’s so fucking grateful to have this still, to be able to hold Steve and to have it be so goddamn easy between them. In this moment, he barely even cares that the whole world knows all about his violent, murderous, brainwashed past. 

“I don’t particularly wanna leave you either, Buck,” Steve says into his hair.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. But I’ll be back before you know it.”

“In time for dinner?”

“Hopefully, if everything goes to plan. I promise not to let Tony talk me into eating with him at The Tower.”

“You better not. I’m making polenta. We’re gonna eat it right off these big wooden boards, all authentic like.”

“Frankie Morelli would be proud.”

Steve kisses his temple again, gives him a final squeeze, and heads out. From the kitchen, Rachel - also unable to sleep with Steve leaving - hollers at him to wear a jacket and he laughs as he pulls the brown leather thing over the grey sweater.

“Bye,” he calls over his shoulder, hand on the handle to the front door. “Love you both!”

Watching Steve leave is not easy.

Bucky pulls up the hood on his sweatshirt, shuffles into the kitchen, and takes the seat next to Rachel where she’s sipping her coffee and reading the paper with a magnifying glass. She doesn’t say anything when Bucky plunks his head town on the table top with great drama, letting out a sigh that last about three seconds too long. She pats his head and lets him pout until she decides it's time for breakfast.

* * *

 

Hours later, Bucky’s too twitchy for knitting. Rachel clucks her tongue in disapproval when he turns on the television and flips to the right news channel but he mutes it at her quiet suggestion. He doesn’t really want to hear what Steve says to dredge up sympathy for him. He watches because just looking at Steve is a comfort, something he’s let himself have in the two days Steve’s been home and not something he’ll willingly part with.

On his screen, Steve’s posture is rigid and his expression steely. Whatever question the interviewer poses makes him shake his head and clench his jaw. On the tabletop before him, his hands turn into fists. If he were holding anything it’d be snapping in two, and it’s gotta be obvious to even the most obtuse viewer that Captain America is a barely contained little ball of fury.

“Oy vey.” Rachel gazes at Steve from behind her glasses. The light from the television is reflected in the lenses as she frowns.

“He looks strange doesn’t he?”

“He looks  _ angry _ ,” Rachel says. She puts down her knitting and sighs. “He never quite figured out how to charm an audience, did he?”

“What a terrible choice for Captain America.”

Rachel laughs. “Yeah, thank goodness they messed that one up.”

Bucky agrees. If Dr. Erskine ended up going with the meathead choice for his super serum, Captain America would’ve been a just a hapless propaganda tool. (Beck had a lot to say about this in the original draft of her book). There’d be no Howlies. Who can say how the war woulda turned out with no Steve. (Really fucking bad for the allies, Bucky thinks.)

If Captain America had stayed the cartoon those senators intended him to be at his conception, Bucky woulda died at Azzano, or woulda become the Winter Solider years earlier, with no Steve in 2014 there to pull him out.

Before he let Steve come home, Bucky would’ve said he’d rather have died back in 1943 but with Steve here now, Bucky’s something almost like grateful they both managed to survive all that. He hopes his words don’t fail him when he tries to tell Steve this later. Maybe he’ll manage it with Steve home and close and warm in bed.

“He’s so bad at this,” Rachel says. “We don’t even need the sound to know he’s doing a terrible job.”

“We don’t?”

“No,” Rachel says, shaking her head. She was always good at laying on the charm. Bucky knows they had this in common, a lifetime ago. “He’s supposed to talk about you, make you a human, remind everyone that you’re a bona fide war hero and the longest held POW of all time. He’s supposed to make people sympathize with you, but look at him scowling. He’s going from angry on your behalf to stiff and blank.”

Bucky cocks his head to the side, studying Steve. The most recent question does seem to have shut him down pretty effectively. His face is expressionless to a creepy degree and his answer is short, just a couple of words.

“Oy vey,” Rachel says again.

* * *

 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Steve declares when he gets home. Bucky’s just getting Rachel settled at the kitchen table. After the day Steve’s had, they’d decided it was a matzo ball soup kinda night. Polenta can wait until tomorrow. They had this meal only a few days ago, but Rachel says there’s no such thing as too much matzo ball soup.

“Oh, bubbeleh.” Rachel beckons Steve closer and he willingly leans down so she can get her hands on his cheeks, pulling him down to kiss his forehead. “We’ve got soup.”

Steve smiles. “Yeah? Thought I smelled something familiar.”

“Bucky makes it nearly as good as I used to.”

At the stove, Bucky ladles a matzo ball into a bowl, shaking his head and chuckling. “Almost. Not quite.”

Steve dumps his coat on the back of a dining chair and wanders over, pressing close into Bucky’s back and looking over his shoulder at the soup simmering away in the pot. He’s got Bucky’s sweater on again. It makes him softer and even bulkier, and Bucky feels Steve relax, breath by breath.

“Looks great, Buck,” Steve murmurs. “Even better than Rachel’s.”

“I heard that!” Rachel protests and Steve laughs.

There’s a memory, a whole bunch of memories, of Bucky cooking dinner and Steve pressing himself into Bucky’s back, except he was too small to look over Bucky’s shoulder and he ended up peeking around Bucky, craning his neck to see what was cooking. Sometimes Rachel would be there, sitting at the table with a glass of wine and chatting with Steve. Sometimes she did the cooking. Sometimes Beck joined them and spent half the time glaring at Rachel, half the time pretending she didn’t exist.

It was very domestic.

It was very much like this.

Steve sits close enough for their knees to touch, and Rachel’s right across the table, digging gleefully into her favorite meal.

Bucky’s happy, even with the whole world knowing about him. This is joy and he revels in it, until Rachel opens her mouth and says, “So what’re you gonna do now? This interview didn’t seem like much of a success.”

Steve’s face goes rigid and creepily blank again. Bucky scowls at Rachel and she certainly notices but she pays him no mind.

“Try again.” Steve squares his shoulders like he’s gearing himself up to march into battle. “The next one will be better.”

Rachel and Bucky share a look.

* * *

 

The next one is not better. Steve storms off the screen in a huff, crushing his mic pack in a fist before disappearing from view.

“Oy vey,” Rachel says.

* * *

 

Steve gets nightmares, like talking about Bucky’s time as the Winter Soldier on television has him reliving the moment Bucky fell from that train over and over again as he sleeps. He suffers quietly, shaking so slightly that the first time he actually wakes Bucky up with his unsteady breathing and frantic heart rate, it takes Bucky two whole minutes to figure out what the fuck is going on.

Bucky shakes him gently, reminding him that he’s safe at home and in bed with Bucky and that for now at least, everything is okay. (His own nightmares are a rare thing these days, but hearing Steve’s voice over Rachel’s phone always made him feel better after a bad one.)

“The train,” Steve chokes out, gasping for breath and clinging to Bucky. He groans and wraps all four limbs around Bucky and shakes even harder than he did when he was still dreaming. He mutters apologies into Bucky’s neck, saying “I’m sorry I let you fall, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” so many times Bucky loses count.

It’s an exercise in futility, trying to convince Steve it ain’t his fault, but at least Bucky can hold him and soothe him and remind him that they’re both safe.

Most nights, Bucky sleeps right through Steve’s bad dreams and in the morning Steve wakes up pale and drawn, his skin clammy and the bags under his eyes growing darker by the day. 

Bucky grows to loathe days when Steve’s off talking to the press, and not just because Steve has to leave the apartment. Bad dreams always seem to follow interviews and Bucky’s got no fucking clue what to do about it.

* * *

 

“This is really not working,” Rachel informs Steve over breakfast.

He’s looking particularly terrible this morning, bags under his eyes a dark, bruised purple. Bucky managed to silence his alarm before it went off, trying to get Steve to sleep in after a rough night. 

But of course Steve shuffled into the kitchen only five minutes after Bucky’d started cooking, because Steve Rogers is a stubborn fuck and not all that much has changed since 1935.

Steve groans and completely neglects his oatmeal, even though Bucky put peanut butter, blueberries, and honey in it, a combination that made Steve’s eyes go round and say,  _ “Oh wow, Buck!” _ just last week.

“They’ve got this whole army of PR folks coaching me, but I just can’t manage to give a decent interview about this,” Steve mutters. “I’m making it worse.”

Steve failure to give a good interview is a far less pressing matter than the nightmares, as far as Bucky’s concerned, but he’s already suggested Steve cut it out with the interviews already enough times to make Steve clench his jaw and square his shoulders and just keep on barrelling through, no matter how painful it is.

(He forgot how fucking frustrating Steve can be when he’s refusing to look after himself, but the memories are back with a vengeance. It still makes Bucky wanna pull his hair out.)

Rachel reaches across the table to hold Steve’s hand. Bucky does not reach across the table to steal Steve’s food and start force feeding him breakfast because that would be weird.

“This is not your typical interview, Steve. It’s personal and painful. Of course you’re struggling with it,” Rachel says. “They’re trying to make you talk about it like you’re some impartial intelligence expert. Of course it’s not working.”

Bucky remains entirely focused on how Steve’s not eating breakfast, because it’s easier than acknowledging that his own past is causing Steve pain. Bucky’s doing a great job of ignoring those red years scratched out on his timeline, but Steve was doing a piss-poor job of that even before Bucky’s identity was leaked, along with a handy-dandy guide to all the murdering he did.

He wishes Steve would just stop with the fruitless endeavor to defend his honor. He wishes Steve would eat his goddamn breakfast.

Steve sighs and actually pushes his bowl farther away. “I’ve gotta call Natasha,” he decides, attempting to stand without eating a single bite of breakfast.

“No.” Bucky pushes on Steve’s shoulder to make sure he stays seated.

“You don’t want me to call Natasha?” 

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I don’t care about that.”

He’s working very hard for this statement to be true, even if there’s a memory of Steve’s red Russian friend as a little girl, pirouetting around on the edge of his memory. He focuses on what’s important. 

Which is Steve eating breakfast, goddamn it.  

“Eat first, then you can call the little spider.”

“I’m not hun--”

Bucky shoves the bowl of oatmeal in Steve’s direction. He barely catches it before the whole lovingly prepared dish careens off the edge of the table and into his lap. 

“Jeez, Buck.” Steve cracks a grin, the first one since he got home last night from his latest disastrous attempt to talk to the press.

“That’s what you get for trying to skip the most important meal of the day,” Rachel tells Steve solemnly. 

Bucky nods in agreement and hands him a spoon.

* * *

 

Steve gets off the phone with Natasha Romanov and calls Sam Wilson. Steve gets off the phone with Sam Wilson, sits down next to Bucky on the couch, and says, “ _ So _ .”

He looks guilty already and Bucky glares at him, crossing his arms over his chest. The metal one whirs ominously and Bucky really wishes Rachel hadn’t mentioned the sound because he notices it all the goddamn time now.

“I kinda wanted to talk this out with Sam and Nat because they’re the only ones that know you’re here and that might affect the approach we’re taking,” Steve says. “But we can’t do it at the Tower because of someone might hear, maybe even the building, so I thought about inviting them to the apartment? If that’s alright with you?”

Bucky glares at him some more and resists the urge to go hide under the kitchen table. “You wanna invite strangers.  _ Here _ . Into our  _ home _ .”

“They ain’t strangers. Come on, Buck.”

Bucky counts out his breaths and says, “I’ll think about it.”

* * *

 

The day the strangers are supposed to descend upon the apartment, Bucky cleans. He scrubs the kitchen and vacuums the carpets and mops the floors. He sits on Steve’s shoulders to get at the very tops of biggest windows and he dusts everything, even if he went through this same ridiculous routine the day before Steve came home a couple weeks ago.

With that finished and an hour still left before they’re supposed to arrive, Bucky thinks about baking but then decides against it. Serving fresh-baked muffins is something done for welcome guests, and Bucky absolutely does not want these strangers to feel welcome.

When he explains this to Rachel, she looks deeply unimpressed, but Steve just sorta laughs and asks Bucky if he wants to take a nap.

He’s way too twitchy for a nap, but lying in bed with Steve is good. Plus it gets Steve to close his eyes for a few minutes, something he’s in dire need of, given the way he’s been sleeping.

Steve sprawls out completely on top of him, smothering Bucky with his hugeness and his smell and his skin, soft and warm. It should be uncomfortable or claustrophobic, but instead Bucky just feels calm, like Steve’s weight is holding him to the earth when gravity might fail them at any moment. Like it might be okay to have strangers in their apartment, with Steve keeping him tethered and still.

Steve runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair and his face is slack, like he’s finally found a moment of quiet after weeks of nightmares.

They get up ten minutes before the strangers are supposed to arrive and help Rachel settle in her lift chair. While Bucky was distracted by cuddling Steve, she magicked bagels from somewhere and brewed coffee, even though she’s having an achy hand day. She’s grown into a full-on bubbe while Bucky was off killing people and she can’t help herself.

“Not a word,” she says, waggling a finger at him as he scowls at the spread on the coffee table.

Bucky huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. When Steve rests a hand on his shoulder, Bucky leans into the touch.

The intercom buzzes, signaling the arrival of the strangers. “Ready, Buck?” Steve whispers.

“I guess,” Bucky mutters.

Steve goes to collect them and Bucky moves to wedge himself under the side table and halfway behind the couch, blocked from view of the rest of the living room by Rachel’s chair. She makes no comment, just smiles at him fondly and brings a mug of coffee to her lips.

Bucky deeply regrets not bringing a bagel with him.

He staked out this spot last night, while Steve was sleeping. If he stays there, the people sitting on the other easy chair and the far end of the couch won’t be able to see him.

Seventy years ago he’d have been ashamed by this. He was also ashamed to be queer, ashamed to disappoint his parents, ashamed when he couldn’t make enough money to provide for him and Steve both, forcing Steve to get up and paint something, even with his cough a wet rattle, shaking through his chest.

Seventy years ago, Bucky woulda been ashamed by this strange need to hide under a table. Now, he absolutely does not want to see the strangers that will soon be traipsing into his apartment, but the thought of staying in the bedroom where he can’t hear what they say and monitor what they do and watch out for Steve and Rachel is equally unsettling.

So he’s hiding, under the side table and wedged behind the couch, and he ain’t even ashamed of it.

“They’re his friends,” Rachel says once Bucky’s settled.

“I know.”

“I understand why you’re a little slow to go around trusting anyone,” Rachel says, “but they’re his friends and he trusts them. They’ve been there for him in ways we can’t be.”

“I  _ know _ . I said they could come over here, didn’t I?”

“You don’t look thrilled about it, tatehleh. Steve’s got a big heart. Caring about them doesn’t take away for how much he cares about you.”

“I know.” This time he sounds like a petulant child and he has to hide his face against his knees, his cheeks burning red.

There were people, before. The Steve and Bucky from a thousand years ago had a whole elaborate social network, people from the neighborhood and people from church and family, and, mostly, people from the bar.

There was that trombone player -  _ Peter _ , Rachel said his name was. She told Bucky all about Peter, how he came home from war when he got a lungful of fumes in The Battle of the Bulge and couldn’t play the way he used to, but he wrote music instead and settled down with Raul in an apartment down the block form Rachel and Beck’s place in The Village. Bucky remembers his cheekbones and the way he used to sigh over Steve at the bar and look at his ass and call Bucky a lucky fucking white boy, but Bucky doesn’t think he was ever jealous.

He remembers a certain pride in it, and a smug superiority that translated to  _ haha, I saw him first. _ He remembers the relief of Steve finally having friends on his own, finally finding a place where the people knew him like Bucky did, saw him like Bucky did. Steve was finally getting the attention and recognition he deserved for being so thoroughly  _ Steve _ \- wonderful and brave and stubborn - even if it was all confined to a handful of queer bars throughout the city.

So he can’t quite make sense of his jealousy now, if that is even what he’s feeling.

He wishes that the three of them - him and Steve and Rachel - were the only ones in the whole world. The kids in the home down stairs, Mia and Olive and Tam, they’re okay too, as long as Bucky doesn’t have to interact with them too much, but that’s it. The whole universe could implode around them, and Bucky would be happy so long as this building and its inhabitants survived. 

It’s a bad thought, a selfish thought, and he might want all Steve’s attention for himself, now that he’s finally ready to accept it, but he will share Steve. He will not be as selfish as he feels, even with his stomach rolling and his palm sweating.

It’s okay if Rachel knows the depth of his jealousy, so long as he doesn’t make Steve feel too terrible about caring for other people outside this apartment.

“I knew the spider, once,” he tells Rachel, peeking up at her through the curtain of his hair.  


“Who?”

Bucky huffs and rolls his eyes. “ _ Romanov _ . I knew her. When she was little. There’s no way in fuck I’m chasing that goddamn memory, so I’ve got no idea what to do about her other than pretend she doesn’t exist.”

“Oh.” Rachel, looks quietly devastated like she always does when Bucky hints at what he was up to over the last seventy years. “Well, grown up, superhero Natasha likes old man jokes and bad puns. And pie. And vodka. And Clint Barton.”

“Huh,” Bucky says. “ _ Puns _ .” Who’d a thought it. The little spider grew up to have a personality.

“They aren’t particularly funny,” Rachel says. “But she thinks they are and that’s what makes it funny.”

“Huh,” he repeats. “The other one is very good looking.”

Rachel raises an eyebrow at him. “Sam is quite handsome, yes.”

“Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not!” 

“Yes, you are!” 

“You’re just cute, James Buchanan,” she says, grinning.

He sputters. 

Although Rachel hasn’t said a word since the news broke, she’s definitely has some idea what they’re saying about him. She’s gotta know what he did for years - and guess what was done to him - and she might not hate him or fear him like a reasonable goddamn person, but there’s no reason for her to go around calling him  _ cute _ of all things.

“You’re not gonna tell Steve I’m an irrationally jealous asshole who’s cranky he’s got friends that ain’t me, right?”

Rachel mimes zipping her lips up and throwing away the key and the absurdity of the conversation makes him laugh until he hears the elevator pinging its arrival in the hall. He quiets immediately, hushing Rachel and pushing back hard between the wall and the couch, hidden from view.

He does not reach for the gun holstered at his ankle, even though his fingers twitch in that direction.

There’s the general sound of greetings, and Steve telling Rachel not to get up, that he’ll get everyone drinks, and Rachel insisting everyone have bagel. Bucky really wants a bagel. If he were a fully functional fucking human, he’d be sitting on the couch and not wedged next to it, happily helping himself to a bagel.

He’s not ashamed by his need to hide, but he is pretty fucking annoyed about his growling stomach and lack of bagel.

A couple minutes later, everyone settles. Steve takes the seat on the couch closest to Bucky’s hiding spot, just like Bucky insisted he do this morning, after proudly demonstrating how well he’s able to conceal himself in the living room. Steve sets his coffee down on the side table above Bucky’s head and dangles his hand between the table and the arm of the couch, just for a second, just long enough for Bucky to graze his metal fingers over Steve’s knuckles.

The spider is on the other end of the couch, and probably knows he’s here if she’s anything like the terrifyingly competent eight year old he once knew and trained and will not think about, not now, not ever.

The irritatingly good-looking  _ Sam _ is on the easy chair on the far end of the couch and out of Bucky’s line of sight, blissfully unaware.

They make small talk for a few minutes, Rachel asking Sam if he’s been enjoying his time off in the city, seeing his family while Steve’s been here. The spider mentions that she’s been in Paris and Rachel tells a rambling, borderline impossible-to-understand story about her and Beck visiting the city fifty years ago.

During the first lull in the conversation, Sam clears his throat and says, “So, Rachel, where’s your house guest?”

From his hiding place, Bucky scowls. He’s not a  _ guest _ here. This is his family. He lives here.  The irritatingly good-looking Sam is the goddamn  _ guest _ .

“He’s around,” Rachel says, with a little shrug. 

It reminds him of the easy way she’d throw her arms around Steve’s shoulders when they were in public, the way she’d call him her sweetheart. Steve would stay stiff and uncomfortable about the lying, but Rachel was convincing enough for the both of them and she’d keep them safe.

“You probably won’t see him though,” Rachel continues. “He doesn’t really like strangers in his home.”

Bucky does not miss the subtle rebuke of Sam calling him a guest. Rachel’s a doll, is a perfect woman. He beams up her but she doesn’t so much as glance in his direction, doesn’t do anything that might give away his position.

“Ah, got it,” says Sam. Bucky can hear him shuffling around in his seat.

“So,” says the spider - Natasha, Rachel and Steve call her  _ Natasha _ . “Your interviews haven’t really done much to change the narrative.”

Steve sighs. “Doesn’t seem like it. Everybody is so hung up on blaming everything Hydra did on Bucky. I can’t stand it.”

“I’ve released as much of the Winter Solider files as I’m comfortable with,” Natasha says. 

And maybe Bucky shouldn’t be listening to this. A nap under a thousand blankets with his face pressed into a pillow that smells like Steve is a much better way to spend a day. Suddenly it’s a blessing that he didn’t stuff himself full of bagels, because his stomach’s rolling again.

“I’m not going to put out enough to create a how-to manual on brain washing your very own assassin, here,” Natasha continues. “It’s a tricky balance, to prove that he was tortured and acted against his will, and not give the public too many details.”

Beside him, Steve’s started bouncing his leg, moving faster and faster as Natasha talks. Steve might be worse with the Winter Soldier talk than Bucky, and Bucky can't stand to watch. He reaches out, slipping his fingers under the cuff of Steve’s jeans. At the touch, he immediately stills, relaxes. Bucky doesn’t care if it gives his position away, if it helps Steve a little.

The spider’s gotta knows he’s here anyway.

“We need to change the story,” Natasha says. “We need to remind people that James Buchanan Barnes is a person and these horrible things  _ happened  _ to him.”

“How do we do that?” Sam asks.

“The interviews Steve’s giving aren’t working.”

“Yeah, man,” Sam says, speaking gently. “I know you’ve being doing the media thing since before I was born and I don’t want to tell you your business, but you’re coming off a little stiff when you talk about Bucky.”

Natasha snorts. “Stiff might be putting it mildly. You sound like a robot. No wonder no one’s believing you when you say that the Winter Solider is a victim, not a bad guy.”

Beneath his fingers, Bucky feels Steve flinch. 

“I know it ain’t working,” Steve grumbles. “I’m just… I’m used to holding back when I talk about him. It’s a hard habit to break.”

“Do you think you can loosen up a little?” Natasha asks. “Maybe tell a few stories about him and get a little more personal? Act like you’re talking to Sam instead of the whole country?”

“Maybe,” Steve says, sounding deeply skeptical.

“The goal is to remind the public that he’s a real person,” Sam repeats. “Not just a faceless boogie man.”

“So this might be a really bad idea,” Steve says, turning to face Rachel. “But I can think of one really good way to change the story here.”

Rachel shuffles in her seat. “Can you now?”

“There happens to be an unpublished book, by a respected historian, that tells Bucky’s whole life story,” Steve says to his friends. “It makes it obvious that he was a person. Not perfect, maybe, but a good man. It would really show exactly what was stolen from him when he got captured.”

“Oh,” says Rachel.

She sounds as breathless as Bucky feels. 

“Oh,” she says again, this time letting out a delighted laugh. One second she’s grinning, but the next her face falls to a frown. “Oh,” she whispers.

Logically, Bucky knows Steve’s talking about the final cut of  _ End of the Line _ , probably an electronic copy at that, but Bucky has to sit on his hands to keep from tearing through the apartment and protecting the two volume unabridged version currently stacked on the bedside table, full of his precious notes and important memories.

“What book?” Natasha asks.

“Beck wrote a book about me and Buck before she died,” Steve says. “It’s a little bit biography, a little bit memoir and family history. And it’s done, edited, finalized, just waiting on my go-ahead to publish it.”

“Dr. Barnes wrote another book?” Sam asks. He sounds like he wants nothing more than to lock himself in a room with said book and not leave until he’s read it three times.

Bucky begrudgingly hates him a little less. He might be irritatingly good-looking and take up too much of Steve’s attention with his friendship, but at least he’s got damn good taste in favorite authors.

“Why haven’t you published it yet?” Natasha asks.

“Oh, you know.” Steve shrugs.

“I really don’t.”

“Hmm.” Rachel makes a little sound in the back of her throat that means she’s deep in thought and working very hard not to lose the thread of the conversation.

“I just don’t want to make anything worse,” Steve says. “I don’t want to give anyone another excuse to hate him.”

“Why would it make things worse?” Natasha asks.

“Rach, would it make things worse?” Steve’s voice is low, quiet, like he’s just having this conversation with Rachel instead the room full of his friends. 

“I honestly don’t know, bubbeleh.” She shifts in her seat again. Bucky would like to crawl out from his hiding spot and hold her hand, and hold Steve’s hand too. He’s positive that the person he was in 1942 woulda had a lot of opinions on this discussion. He woulda felt a lot of things and probably been scared and said hell no, but he doesn’t have any of that now.  

The whole world knows the very worst of him. Everything he did, all the blood and death and destruction. A list of the murders he’s thought to be responsible for is the the first search result when you Google James Buchanan Barnes.

(He knows. He checked, and it made him queasy even without clicking on any of the links). 

The life Beck outlined in her book, the one he lived with Steve, it was good and solid and loving.  It’s everything the last seventy years were not, and Bucky just doesn’t have it in him anymore to care if loving Steve pisses off some assholes. It’s the best thing about him, something he actually did right, and the love Beck wrote about in that book somehow lasted lifetimes. If all that information on the Winter Soldier is already out there, it just seems plain bizarre to go on keeping the very best of James Buchanan Barnes secret.

Maybe if interviewers have less questions about the Winter Solider and more questions about how queer Steve is for his best friend, the nightmares won’t be so bad.

“So much has changed,” Rachel says. “But there’s still a lot of hate out there. I don’t know if it would make things worse, and maybe it wouldn’t make it all that much worse for Bucky, but it might make things harder on you.”

“What the hell is in this book?” mutters Natasha.

Sam stays silent.

“Are you ready for the uproar?” Rachel asks. She’s so coherent, focused like she was when he first showed up on the balcony and she was determined to make him stay. She’s got a death grip on her thoughts right now, and Bucky’s in awe of her, watching echos of the activist she was for all those years while he was out killing for fascists. It might not last long. By dinner she might not remember this conversation, but right now she’s so focused and wise and present. “Because it will be madness for a while. Utter madness. There’ll be angry cries for you to give up the shield. They’ll ask you for every detail about your relationship. They’ll ask you about  _ Peggy _ . There’ll be backlash, probably from a loud, angry minority, and I don’t actually think anything would come of their hollering, but it could be a lot.”

“You think it would put me in a weaker position? That I wouldn’t have the political clout to defend Bucky?”

“Yes,  _ maybe _ ,” says Rachel. “But, on the other hand, you’ll have very loud defenders, too. We’ve got more power now, lobbyists and allies and a voice. We’re more organized. Mostly, I worry that the scrutiny will be too much. You’ve been through  _ so much _ , Steve.”

“I’d be fine,” Steve insists. And Bucky rolls his eyes.

“It’s a helluva way to change the story,” Rachel muses, chucking a little. “But you weren’t ready to publish before this happened, and I’m not convinced you are now.”

“Look,” says Steve. He leans forward, turning more towards Rachel and resting with his elbows on his knees. Bucky wishes he could see the expression on his face. “Mostly I wasn’t ready before because I knew I’d be expected to talk about Bucky, to answer questions about Bucky, and that was too much. It hurt too much when I thought he was dead. I’ve wanted to shout it from the rooftops since about 1939, so it wasn’t that I didn’t want the world to know. Bucky was gone and I was grieving and I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t talk about him.”

Bucky swallows past the lump in his throat.

“You know,” says Natasha, “if you gave us any actual information on what you’re talking about here, we might be able to weigh in on the to publish or not to publish issue.”

“Natasha,” Sam says, speaking quietly but firmly. 

“What?”

“Really? You really don't get it?”

“Get  _ what _ ?”

“Maybe we shouldn’t do it,” Steve says, ignoring them. “I won’t give them another reason to hate Bucky. I won’t take the chance that it’ll make things worse. It’s a bad idea. Forget it.”

Without making the conscious decision to do so, Bucky scrambles to his feet. He knocks over the end table in the process, and nearly falls over when he loses his balance as he reaches out to save the lamp from smashing on the floor.

Steve’s got a steadying hand on his hip and Rachel’s scolding him for almost breaking her funiture. Natasha doesn’t flinch, just raises one red eyebrow, but Sam squeals and flails in his chair.

“Jesus, you’ve been there this whole time!” he shouts.

Bucky does not have time for an irritatingly good-looking birdbrain to be shouting at him in his own goddamn home.

“We’re publishing it,” Bucky says scowling down at Steve.

“Buck--”

“If the only reason you don’t want to publish it is because of me, then we’re fucking publishing it.  Right away. Right now.”

Steve sighs, he keeps his hand on Bucky’s hip, tugging him forward until he’s standing between Steve’s spread knees. Bucky crosses his arms over his chest, ignores the strangers in their home, and keeps on scowling at Steve.

“I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Steve mutters. “It’s a bad idea.”

“It’s a  _ great  _ idea.”

“It’s a terrible idea!”

“Look,” Bucky says, kicking at the side of Steve’s foot and avoiding his eyes. “You’re the one that’s gonna have to bear the worst of it. I’m gonna be safe here in hiding and you’ll be out there, defending yourself and us and answering a million and a half personal questions. You’re under no obligation to tell anyone  _ shit _ , not for me and not for anyone else. If you don’t want to go through all that, tell me now and I’ll drop it.”

Steve clenches his jaw, like he’s gearing up to tell Bucky just that, but Steve’s never been much of a liar.

“People out there will hate you for it, Buck. It might make it worse.” Steve looks pretty miserable about it, and Bucky sighs.

“They already know the very worst of me.” He looks at Steve and studiously pretends that they’re alone instead of in a room full of strangers. “And what’s in that book is the best. The very best. All those bad things might be true, but this is true too. I want it out there. It’s a good read, Beck’s last book. That’s how she planned on telling everyone the real story, so why not do it now?”

Steve’s lip trembles, and he pressed his face into Bucky’s stomach. Bucky wants to reach for him, but he’s not comfortable enough for that, given the audience he’s been ignoring.

Next to them, Rachel’s beaming like all her wildest dreams are coming true and Bucky would very much prefer to keep on pretending it's just the three of them in the apartment, but he glances over at the strangers in the living room.

Natasha looks as blank as anything, like the good spy she is, but Bucky thinks they surprised her with this, and she’s pretty damn embarrassed she didn’t figure it out for herself. Sam looks like he learned about Steve and Bucky months ago, but he’s still all emotional over it.

Bucky clears his throat and says, “Can we take a nap now?”

Steve laughs, only a little hysterical, and lifts his head from Bucky’s stomach to smile up at him.  “Sure. Just give me a couple minutes to wrap this up, okay?”

Bucky nods. He bends down so Rachel can kiss his cheek and then flees the room, taking the long way around all the furniture to stay as far away from the strangers in their home as possible. He makes a detour on the way to their bedroom, stopping in Beck’s office to grab a clean copy of  _ End of the Line _ .

Probably should give himself a refresher on exactly what’s in here, now that it’s only a matter of time before it becomes public record.

Buried under a pile of blankets with his face against a pillow that smells like Steve, he gets halfway through the first chapter - the story of how his parents met, the chapter nearly identical to the version in the unabridged version - before Steve slips into the room. He closes the door behind him with his foot and pulls his shirt over his head at the same time. By the edge of the bed, he shucks his jeans and turns off the lamp as Bucky puts the manuscript on the bedside table, stacked up on his own copies full of his own notes.

Steve crawls over Bucky to get to his side of the bed instead of walking around the end. He tugs on Bucky’s hip, shuffling them around until he’s happy with their position facing each other, their legs a messy tangle under the blankets.

Steve whispers, “You’re amazing. You know that?”

Bucky’s cheeks burn, and he closes his eyes, shaking his head.

Steve whispers, “I love you a lot.”

Bucky’s cheeks burn hotter, and he squeezes his eyes closed tighter, but he can’t help but smile. “You always say that.”

“That’s because it’s always true.”

He still doesn’t quite understand why Steve loves him, or how he can manage it when Bucky killed a bunch of people for Nazis and shot Steve and refused to see him and needs to hide under tables sometimes, but Rachel says that just because he doesn’t understand it doesn’t make it less true. It’s one of those things Bucky’s just trying to accept and be thankful for. He just lets that be easy.

“I’m kinda weird now,” Bucky reminds him.

“If you really think you weren’t weird before, I’ve got news for you, pal.”

“You sure you wanna go telling the whole world you’re queer?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “It definitely won’t be the worst thing I’ve caused a media ruckus about. I’m relieved, really. I didn’t like hiding it back then and now I don’t have to. And I think it might actually be easier, if people ask me about the Winter Soldier stuff less because they want to talk about our old life instead. I’ve been holding back gushing about you for decades, honey.”

Bucky grins, thrilled to have this thoughts on the matter confirmed by Steve’s words, and asks, “Hey, do you remember when you got dog sick at the tail end of the winter in ‘36?”

Three little lines appears between Steve’s eyebrows when he frowns. “Course I do. Well, not so much the week I almost kicked the bucket but I remember it happened.”

“Well, I guess a week after you got better my ma was still peeking in on you in the middle of the night.”

Steve’s quiet. He plays with Bucky’s fingers under the blankets and scoots a little closer, squinting as he tries to remember that far back. “Oh,” he says, blinking when he gets it. “ _ Shit _ .”

“Yeah, I forgot to throw the lock and she saw you all naked in my bed after you gave me a blowjob for the first time.”

Steve grimaces, his whole body shuddering. Bucky doesn't think he’s seen Steve this red in this century. “Jesus Christ.”

“I guess it was mighty big of her to give you a couple more days to make sure you were healthy enough before throwing you out on the street.” Bucky frowns over the memory. At the time, he hadn’t thought life could get any more miserable than walking away from the brownstone he shared with his family. If only. “Well, she didn’t want you on the street. Had a nice enough apartment all picked out, just a few blocks from the office. And that woulda been fine, but her and Tateh decided I couldn’t see you anymore and that obviously wasn’t gonna work.”

“Jesus,” Steve says again. He closes his eyes and holds Bucky’s hands and breathes through his nose. “That’s  _ worse _ than I imagined. She saw us like that? And they didn’t kick you out, Buck, you left for me. You left your family behind for me, and you still pulled that shit where you wouldn’t touch me and tried to get me to go with girls for  _ years _ . Christ, what were you thinking?”

That strange time between leaving his parents house and Steve telling him about the bar remains foggy. He remembers living by an elaborate series of rules designed to keep things strictly friendly with Steve, but he can’t quite recall why it was so goddamn important.

“I’ve got no idea what I was thinking,” Bucky admits. Steve’s fucking mouth just looks so good when he’s pouting, his lips plump and red. It makes Bucky grin and he reaches out, thumbing at the corner of Steve’s mouth until he gets Steve smiling too. “And I left for me, as well as you. Living in flops and working shitty jobs and not seeing my family, those were all bearable options. Not seeing you just wasn’t something I could do. Sorry I forgot about that for so long.”

Steve shakes his head. “You don’t need to be sorry. You’re just-- You just--”

But Bucky has no interest in having the  _ I’m sorry, no don’t be sorry _ argument again. He covers Steve’s mouth with hand until Steve stops trying to talk and says, “There’s that picture.”

“Picture?”

“Of Rachel on Beck’s lap, squashed in together with the whole family on a couch.”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve seen it.”

“I look at it a lot, and that memory, of what my parents said, it feels healed over, you know?” Bucky searches for the words to explain and Steve’s fingers find their way into his hair. “It’s okay now, because they didn’t try to do that to Beck. Rachel says they saw a lot of my folks, and I look at that picture and it feels okay.”

“Yeah, they came around eventually,” Steve whispers. “Too bad it only took their oldest son dying in a war to make it happen.”

Steve’s awfully cute when he’s holding on to century-old grudges on Bucky’s behalf and Bucky smiles at him for a second.

“Do you really think it’s a bad idea?” he asks.

Steve blinks, struggling to keep up now that Bucky’s switched to talking about  _ End of the Line, _ but the book and the picture feel connected. Bucky looks at that picture of Rachel on Beck’s lap, the rest of his family right next to them, smiling, and he thinks about releasing the book Beck wrote, the whole world getting the full story of just who he and Steve have always been to each other. It feels healing. He doesn’t have the words to explain the connection to Steve, but he needs it to be that way for Steve too if they’re gonna do this. It needs to be healing for the both of them.

“With the book,” Bucky struggles clarify. “Like with the picture, it might all be okay now. We can release this book without risking anyone getting the queer electroshocked outta them and it might be okay now, everything we couldn’t say and couldn’t do back then. It might be better now, you know.”

“Yeah,” Steve whispers. He looks calm, peaceful, like he’s actually got a shot at getting through the night without any terrifying dreams. “Yeah, I know.

“Plus, this is just how Beck planned it,” Bucky says. “It’s probably a halfway decent way to tell the world, if it's what Beck wanted.”

“She always was the brains of the unit.”

Bucky laughs and scoots as close as he can to Steve, lays a hand on his neck. “Still, it might be a really dumb move. A complete snafu.”

“Maybe.” Steve smiles, all lopsided and bright. “But what the hell, let’s do it anyway.”

* * *

**1936**

They pick up odd jobs through the summer, working enough that Bucky’s hopeful they’ll do okay in the winter. He’s quietly putting aside a fund for when Steve inevitably gets sick, but occasionally he’ll find extra twenties stuffed in there. He doesn’t ask where they come from and Steve doesn’t mention it. 

This week, Bucky's been working the counter at the Boyd’s butcher shop, filling in for Johnny Boyd Jr. while he's out of town, vacationing in New Jersey for his honeymoon. The money’s good, plus it’s kept them in cuts of meat about to go off.

He gets the shop closed for the afternoon, but hangs around for a few more hours to watch Steve paint the windows with a series of happy cartoon pigs that frankly make Bucky uncomfortable, given how much pork he sold today.

On their way out the front door, with the sun setting and paint drying on the windows, Bucky shoulders Steve’s bag while Steve tries to stretch out his back, wincing as he moves. Bucky’s fully planning on taking him to the automat by the flop where they've been staying for the last few weeks, calculating their budget for the rest of the week and figuring out how much he can put in the sick fund. Checking the lock, he closes the door behind Steve.

It’s just shaping up to the kinda day that’s become their new normal in the last few months, and the very last thing he expects to see waiting out on the sidewalk by the shop is his little sister.

"Where the hell have you been?" Beck demands as Bucky’s about to set off down the sidewalk, stomping her foot and scowling and just about giving Bucky a heart attack.

"Jesus  _ Christ _ , Rebecca!" Bucky skids to a halt, wrapping a hand around Steve's elbow to keep him from taking off towards the trolley. Beck's standing on Steve's bad side, and he didn't hear her snap at them, hasn’t seen her yet. "Where did you come from? And what’re you thinking? Talking like that."

Steve's noticed her now and he shakes off Bucky's hand with entirely more force than necessary. 

"Hey, Beck." Steve messes with his hair, looking shy and uncomfortable.

"Hi, Steve," Beck replies, sounding small and not at all like herself. Her lower lip quivers, even if she's trying hard to keep glaring at Bucky.

God, she looks older. Six months, and she's grown at least two inches. Her jaw’s more defined, her cheekbones more prominent, but her thick auburn hair is still tied back in a messy braid. Bucky’s nearly certain that she’s wearing a pair of his old trousers.

He’s been so busy working all the hours he can and fighting to find them somewhere safe to sleep at night, that he’s barely had the time to miss his family. He hits the hay so exhausted every night that he’s stopped even imaging his family, all tucked into their comfortable feather beds.

But all that grief floods back as he looks at Beck, her new height proof of time he’s lost. He feels sick with it again, how much he misses his family. And Beck most of all. He shoulda found a way to get in touch, gotten a letter to her or taken her to the park after school or  _ something _ .

Bucky's frozen, staring at her and paralyzed with missing her, even while she's standing right in front of him. He's got no idea what to say or what to do. Does she know? Does she hate him? Hate Steve?

God, Bucky just wants to hug her but he can’t manage to move.

Steve's got no similar problem and he steps towards Beck, opening his arms. She throws herself into the hug, hiding her face against Steve's neck before glaring at Bucky over Steve's shoulder.

So maybe it’s just Bucky that she hates now. He desperately wants to know what their parents told her and at the same time, he really doesn’t want to know at all.

She's nearly as tall as Steve. Any day now, she'll be even taller.

"I missed you," she says, stepping back from Steve and wiping tears from her eyes.

"Yeah, me too, Beck. You got tall!" Steve reaches out to pat the top of Beck's ever-messy hair.  Laughing, she bats his hand away. 

“Gonna be taller than you! Just you wait.”

“Oh, I believe it.”

"I missed you, too," Bucky says, grasping for the right words. He's usually so good with words.  Right now they're getting stuck in his throat.

Beck keeps on frowning at him. "We got home from school and you were just  _ gone _ ."

Bucky winces and refuses to make eye contact with Steve. "I know."

"You just disappeared."

"I  _ know _ ."

"Nobody's even saying why! Ma says it's just a little disagreement that'll blow over but Tateh won't even speak your name."

It feels like being socked, right in the jaw, but Bucky doesn’t let himself wince or grimace. "You gonna ask me why?"

Beck stares at him for too long. She's looking at him too intently, like she sees much more than she should when she's only twelve. She glances at Steve and then back to Bucky, raising her chin high and defiant. "Do you got your reasons?"

"Yes," he whispers.

"Okay, then. I'm buying us egg creams."

"How about I buy you an egg cream, huh?" Bucky mentally says goodbye to getting a full meal from the automat into Steve.

They go to the soda shop around the corner, the one they could only afford on special occasions growing up, when they all still lived a few blocks over and Rebecca was just a baby.

Beck doesn't put up an argument about Bucky paying and Steve lets Bucky order him a slightly more substantial banana split, the two of them digging around in their pockets to swing the price together. Treats in hand, they settle at a booth by the windows.

Steve's a goddamn champion, carrying on the burden of conversation while Bucky sips at his root beer, hoping the bubbles will settle his stomach. He asks Beck about school and Beck describes the plot of every book she's read in the past six months in excruciating detail. 

Bucky's even read a couple of them himself, and normally they'd talk about their least favorite parts, the stuff that moved them, the characters that had them wanting to pull out their hair or hug them silly. 

Today, Bucky can only manage little nods of understanding, the occasional, "Oh yeah," or "Sure thing."

Beck compliments the window Steve painted and Steve digs around in his bag, handing Beck a crumpled piece of paper where he sketched out his plan for the window last night. With painfully careful movements, Beck smooths out the paper and presses it between the pages of whatever book she's carting around. Beck's always carting around some book.

"How'd you find us?" Bucky asks when there's a lull in conversation. They haven't managed to stay in one place for longer than a month and a half and neither of them have found steady work.

He doesn't regret walking out on his parents. He couldn't live with himself if he agreed not to see Steve anymore, but he won’t let them go back to how they were before. Messing around like that, it was stupid. So they'll be friends, like they’ve always been. Bucky will find some dames for them to marry someday and it won’t be anything like what he wants, but they'll still be together.

"The Boyds talked to Mama at church last week, said you were filling in for Johnny and that Steve paints the windows sometimes on Sunday afternoons," Beck says.

" _ Ma _ told you?" he asks with a huff, disbelieving.

"Sure," Beck says. "She sent me. Oh, and I gotta give you this."

From between another few pages in her book, Beck pulls out a note. Just a single piece of paper, folded in half. It's nothing, just an innocuous note that Winnie didn't even bother putting in an envelope, but just looking at the thing makes his palms sweat. He swallows past the lump in his throat, flinching away from the little folded note, and shifting in his seat.

Next to him, Steve stares at him with concern. After a few long seconds, Steve slowly reaches out across the table for the note. It's the only thing that motivates Bucky to touch the damn thing. He snaps it up before Steve can, holding it to his chest to avoid even the possibility of Steve getting a peek at what's written inside.

Steve suspects. He’s gotta have some idea about why they can’t go back to Bucky’s parents’ house, but when Bucky begged him not to talk about, Steve respected it. If Steve sees all his suspicions confirmed in this note - probably Ma calling him a pervert and a sinner and not fit to be around her other kids and asking him not even to use the family name anymore, or maybe even taking his nickname from him because it came from Buchanan - Steve will make him talk about it.

Steve might start trying to make him go home and Bucky can't bear it.

"You scared of a little piece of paper?” Beck asks, rolling her eyes.

Under the table, Steve presses his leg into Bucky's.

"It ain't gonna bite ya, Buck," Beck says. "Ma just wants you to come to church next week."

"You read my note?" Bucky asks, feeling woozy.

"Of course I read it. Ma didn't even put it in a envelope."

Well, if Beck read it and she's still her charming, snarky self, Bucky can probably handle it too. He swallows, takes another deep breath, and opens it.

It's a fine note. Overly formal, but pleasant enough, just demanding his presence at church and listing a date. She wants Steve there, too. Says so plain as day right there on the paper in his mother's familiar script.

He silently hands the note over for Steve to read.

"So?" demands Beck. "What should I tell Ma about next week?"

He shares a look with Steve. He just raises his eyebrows and shrugs as if to say,  _ Your family, your call, Buck. _

"We'll think about it.”

After they walk Beck home, lingering on the far end of the street and not daring to get to close to his parents’ house, Bucky finds new coins in his pocket. It's the price of an egg cream, a root beer, and a banana split.

* * *

 

They sit on the curb outside the flop because it's a nice night. It’s cooler outside than in, and it smells better, too. They’ve got hunks of bread and canned green beans for dinner instead of the automat, neither one of them willing to brave the shared kitchen to cook something proper. 

If there was a sure-fire way to make sure Steve gets sick again before the fall, it would be eating anything coming out of that pit.

“So,” says Steve when his food’s all gone. He wipes his hands on his trousers and bumps Bucky with his shoulders.

Bucky’s taking his sweet time, hoping to avoid this conversation. As long as he’s got stale bread to gnaw on, he doesn’t have to think about Beck, six months older, or the note from his mother burning a hole in his pocket and the decision he’s got one week to make.

“C’mon, Buck.” Steve bumps him again and the just stays there, leaning against him. This is breaking the biggest of the careful rules Bucky made for himself when they left home - no unnecessary contact,  _ just don’t fucking touch him _ \- but Steve’s just so warm and touchable. He saw his baby sister today, six months older and more changed than Bucky expected, so he takes all the comfort he can get. “What’d you wanna do?”

“I dunno,” Bucky whispers. “Is it stupid that I kinda wanna go?”

“Well that depends.”

“On what?”

“On why the hell we left your folks’ house in the first place.”

Bucky groans, hiding his face in his hands. “Steve--”

“I’m not gonna ask again.” Steve’s talking quiet, right in his ear. He leans harder against Bucky’s side. “It’s no use. You ain’t gonna tell me. But I don’t see how I’m gonna be much good helping you out here if I don’t even know what’s going on.” 

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Bucky mutters into his hands.

“I know you don’t, Buck.”

“It was… bad.”

“Have you seen that goddamn kitchen?” Steve asks. “I kinda figured it was  _ bad _ .”

Leave it to Steve to make Bucky laugh with the morbid humor, even when he’s this miserable. Bucky’s bark of laughter make Steve giggle and Steve’s giggling just encourages Bucky. They both laugh and laugh, until his belly hurts and Steve starts coughing. As they calm down, Bucky leans back on his elbows, stretching out on the goddamn sidewalk because it's better than being inside.

“My parents, they wanted me to do something I couldn’t do,” he admits. “Said if I couldn’t follow their rules, I’d have to leave their house. And, well. I couldn’t.”

“Okay,” Steve says.

“They said some things, nasty things. I don’t know if I can look my ma in the eye when I haven’t forgiven her.”

“But you kinda wanna go to church anyway.” Steve crosses his legs beneath him, and glances up at the strip of sky between buildings. He’s got that look on his face, like he’d be sketching right now if he had a pad of paper handy.

“I’m curious,” Bucky admits. “I wanna know what she’s got to say for herself. But on the other hand, whatever she has to say could just make me spitting mad all over again.” 

Or it could devastate him again. It took him months to work up a good anger towards his parents, and seeing his mother might make it hard to stay angry. Angry is so much better than what he was before, depressed, heartbroken, ready to break down at the drop of a hat.

“It’s Mass, Buck,” Steve says. “What could she possibly say at Mass? It's not like she’s about to go off on you where all her church friends could hear. How bad could it be?” 

Steve’s so smart. He barely finished eighth grade so he doesn’t give himself enough credit, but Steve is  _ smart _ , goddamn it. Bucky didn’t even consider the location of this meeting. If they get there only a minute before the service starts, that’s only time for a quick hello. And there would be nothing keeping them there afterwards, if Winnie so much as frowns at Steve.

“It was great, seeing Beck today,” Bucky whispers. This time it's him leaning up against Steve. Just for tonight, he can go easy on this one rule. “Wasn’t it?”

“She’s gonna be taller than me.” Steve sighs, but he’s smiling a little anyway.

“All those books she’s reading. Perfect grades last year. She sure is something, huh?” 

“She sure is.”

“You think if we make nice with my ma at church, we’ll get to see a little more of Rebecca?”

Steve grins. He reaches up, ruffling Bucky’s hair, and that’s okay. That’s the kind of thing pals do. That’s  _ fine _ . But then he lingers, fingers stretching a little and then petting  - highly,  _ extremely  _ against the rules - and it's so nice Bucky closes his eyes. He feels like he can breathe right for the first time since Beck dropped that goddamn note on the tabletop.

“I think it's worth a shot,” Steve murmurs.

Bucky sighs. “Better do your Hail Marys, Steve-o. Guess we’re going to Mass next week.”

“Good.” Steve nods. “Hurry up and finish your supper.”

* * *

 

Bucky keeps up a steady stream of chatter and jokes as they get dressed. 

He made sure to pack Steve’s Sunday best, but his own suit was not a priority when he was fleeing his parents house so Bucky looks a little rough himself. He doesn’t so much as glance at himself in the mirror.

He keeps on babbling to Steve, trying to cover his nerves, as they head towards Assumption. It’s closer to the flop than the Barnes family home and Bucky imagines his family on route. It's hot enough out that Winnie will probably take the car, to keep them from sweating through their clothes on the walk over.

A block from the church, Bucky can't come up with anything more to say and he falls quiet, listening to Steve wheeze at his side. In a perfect world, he'd hold Steve's hand, giving him a reassuring squeeze that would comfort Bucky, too. 

Instead he makes sure to keep a big, gaping, vast amount of space between them. There’s a good four or five feet between them as they walk, and maybe that’s just as queer looking as too little space between them. Maybe it’s obvious that Bucky’s over compensating. He tries to remember how much distance usually stays between normal fellas and comes up with nothing.

He’s sure he’d be sweating through his shirt even on the coldest day of the year.

This is Bucky's chance to prove to his ma that he wasn't lying when he promised that he wouldn't do anything wrong with Steve. That they'd just be friends. That Bucky's working on finding a girl and he might not want to go back to his parents’ house anytime soon, but it’s important to him that she sees that Bucky’s gonna grow up just like she always wanted him too anyway.

He hasn't touched Steve since they left his parents house. He's  _ trying _ .

They round the corner and Winnie’s standing on the front steps of Assumption with the twins.

He stumbles a little, shocked to see them up close when six months ago his father made it very clear he didn’t want anyone queer anywhere near them.

The kids are chasing each other in a circle, around and around their mother, using her body as some sort of shield as they slap and shriek at each other. Nearby, Mrs. O'Connell and Mrs. Bryan glare and whisper as they head inside, undoubtedly offended by such unruly children daring to act their age so near the church. 

Winnie smirks at them, raising one eyebrow. They rush inside a little faster, fleeing.

The whole interaction last only a few seconds, but Bucky suddenly misses his family so terribly, he aches. He wants to laugh with his mother over Mrs. O’Connell and Mrs. Bryan, before pulling her into a hug and hiding from the world in her familiar embrace. He wants to pick up one twin in each arm, spinning them around as they giggle helplessly.

If this were a year ago, he'd do it, too.

Now, he's sure he's not allowed. Winnie might’ve invited him and Steve here, might have brought the kids with her, but he doesn’t know what it means now. Last Bucky heard, he's not allowed to hug his mother or be in the same house as the children. His father doesn't trust him.

Winnie was so furious last time he saw her, but when she catches sight of him at the base of the stairs - standing at least 4 feet from Steve - she smiles. It's a little sad, a lot heartbreaking, but it’s not a frown and she’s not recoiling with disgust. She beckons him closer and he goes to her, Steve trailing along behind him.

The twins get to him first, yelling his name and hanging off his arms. Bucky tenses and looks at his mother, ready for her to scold them or grab them away from the danger that is him and Steve. Instead, she just smiles, happier now.

"You're too skinny," she says over the din of her kids talking a mile a minute.

Just like that, he knows it’ll be okay.

His mother still loves him, even if she’s disappointed with his choices.

(George's the one who holds a grudge.)

"Good to see you, too, Ma," Bucky whispers, all choked up.

With Hank and Hannah each hugging one of his legs, he manages to give his ma a hug too. He sighs into it, something tight uncoiling in his chest for the first time in six months.

When they all untangle after a few long moments, Bucky looks around. "Where's Beck?"

"Inside, saving seats near the rest of the family," Winnie replies.

Not for the first time, Bucky wonders what his uncles know, what the rest of the Buchanans think about Bucky disappearing, quitting his job and avoiding the gym and never going along with Tommy and Kieran to beat guys up. They still see Tommy some, but he hasn’t so much as mentioned Bucky’s parents since they stopped staying at his apartment.

"Steve," Winnie says, pulling him into a hug. Watching as Winnie kisses Steve's cheek, that tight thing in his chest gets even looser. 

It's fine. Everything's fine. Maybe he can't go home, but his mother still loves him, still loves Steve, too.

"You're too skinny, too," Winnie says, clicking her tongue and shaking her head.

"Aw, what do you know," Steve teases, flexing his arms. "I've put on at least five pound of pure muscle."

Winnie keeps shaking her head, but the twins throw themselves at Steve next, insisting he use his alleged new strength to pick them up. Steve squares his shoulders, gets that stubborn, determine look around his mouth, prepared to give lifting the twins his best effort. Winnie hustles them inside before Steve can embarrass himself too badly.

Bucky stares for a minute, stunned and elated, before following them inside.

In the sanctuary, Bucky panics for a moment when he realizes he's the last one to slide into the pew and he'll have to sit pressed in next to Steve. He does his best to lean as far away from him as possible, but ends up hanging so far into the aisle that he gives up, deciding that looks queerer than just sitting here like a normal person. His arm brushes Steve’s, but no one seems overly concerned. Beck and Steve are whispering quietly next to him. Further down the pew Hannah is perusing a bible while his ma tries to fix Hank's hair.

Bucky lets out a big breath. This is fine. This is normal.

They're on the second scripture reading when he sees Uncle Kieran, glaring at Steve over his shoulder from one pew up. When he notices Bucky's looking at him, he scowls ever harder and pulls his three year old son Patrick a little closer to his side, as if he's trying to shield the kid from Bucky's predatory gaze.

Bucky spends the rest of the service staring at the floor.

* * *

 

After church, and some uncomfortable conversation with Uncle Corman asking where the hell they've been and Uncle Abel fretting over Bucky getting out of practice with his boxing, they walk to a diner for lunch. Bucky holds the door open, letting Beck and the twins go through.  Steve passes next, giving Bucky a dopey smile. Steve's just as delighted as Bucky to see the kids again. This is as much Steve's family as it is Bucky's.

"Get a table," Winnie tells Steve. "We'll be a minute."

They stand on the sidewalk, Bucky's hands deep in his pockets, his ma's arms crossed over her chest. This is the part he was dreading this morning, but it seems more manageable, now that Winnie’s smiled at him and greeted Steve warmly and brought the kids along.

"Your tateh’s not coming," she says.

Bucky’s unsurprised. "Okay."

Winnie sighs and she looks older. His ma had him when she was nearly a kid herself, not even eighteen yet, and he’s never once thought she looked old until this moment.

"He’s too stubborn for his own good," she murmurs. "And so are you."

"So you say,” Bucky replies, glancing over his shoulder. In the diner, Steve’s talking animatedly with the kids at a booth, but he’s angled toward the windows, like he’s keeping an eye on Bucky while Bucky’s keeping an eye on him. “He's still really mad at me, huh?"

"He's more hurt than anything. You hurt him."

Bucky’s eyes bulge outta his head. “ _ I _ hurt  _ him _ !”

"You know how important family is to him, and he feels like you abandoned yours. You just disappeared. You left."

" _ I  _ left!" he shouts.  

A couple passers by turn to look at him and Winnie glares at them until they walk away with a little more urgency.

"He thinks I left," Bucky whispers. "He kicked me out! You both did." He realizes he's looming over his mother. It's always a surprise, to see how tiny she is when her presence is so massive.  She has this in common with Steve. Bucky takes a step back anyway, hunching his shoulders.

"We explained the rules of the house," Winnie says, chin held high. "You made your choice. And that's why your father doesn't want to see you. Because you did not choose your family."

"Sure,  _ that’s _ why he doesn’t want to see me,” Bucky says. “And I did choose my family.”

Winnie cringes away, like she suddenly can't bear to look at him. 

"It's not like that with us, Ma, I promise," he says even though he said this all before, on that horrible day when they confronted him about Steve. Six months out, he hopes she’ll listen. "We don't-- I haven't-- That was nothing, okay?  _ Nothing _ . But Steve's family. He's your family, too. How could you ask me to not be his friend anymore? How could you and Tateh do that to me?  Do hate me that much?"

The words leave an unpleasant taste in his mouth, and as much as he wants this to be the truth, is working so hard to make sure its the truth, Steve is the opposite of  _ nothing _ .

"No," says Winnie. She reaches up, squeezing his shoulders. “He doesn't hate you, could never hate you. Neither of us could, my precious boy. We love you. But we're worried."

"Yeah," says Bucky, shrugging off her hands. "Don’t be. I'm doing great."

_ Great _ is definitely a lie, what with them moving constantly and the inconsistent work and the winter looming, cold and menacing, just a few months ahead of them.

"Good," says Winnie. "If this is what you need to be doing right now, then alright. But it doesn't change how I see your future. Eventually, you'll find a girl and you'll get married and you'll come back to the company. You'll take over the company."

"I know, but I'm not coming home. Not when Tateh still doesn't understand. Not unless he changes his mind about Steve."

Winnie grimaces.”So you won't come home right now. It's not permanent."

"Right."

"You'll come to church sometimes."

"Sure."

"And I'll give you money."

"No," he says, shaking his head. He's got more pride than that. "We're doing fine, Ma."

Winnie huffs out a breath, deeply skeptical, but she links arms with Bucky, leading them back into the diner. 

"You’ll let me feed you," she says. "At the very least."

“And Steve too?” he asks, just so they’re clear. Just so he’s sure that Winnie understands that him and Steve are a package deal.

Winnie only scowls a little. “And Steve, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Di and Aj had to do a lot of work on this one, I gotta say. But I'm pretty happy with the way it turned out and I hope you are too!
> 
> Thanks for reading I love you with all my heart. 
> 
> [Tumblr!](http://jaxington.tumblr.com/) I've got one.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been a bit of a wait. Sorry about that! It turns out when your corporate overlords layoff 7 people it makes more work for the remaining staff?? Who knew right??? So yeah, mostly its been work, work, work. Thanks so much for sticking with me.
> 
> This was beta read by the delightful Di, the awe-inspiring AJ, and also, weirdly, my mother who I finally let read my stuff after years of denying her. She's the most adorable woman alive and bought me a Captain America t-shirt to 'commemorate my amazing achievement.' So thanks, Mom.
> 
> [Tumblr!](http://jaxington.tumblr.com/) I have one.

It’s bound to be their last quiet night for a while after the strangers clear out of the apartment, so they spent it, just the three of them, by the fire in the livingroom. By some tacit agreement they all agree to not talk about the book or coming out or any of it.

Instead they play the _hey, do you remember when_ game about the bar. It’s hit or miss if Rachel and Bucky remember any given story, but it’s nice anyway. Like if Steve and Bucky managed to get to the 21st fucking century the normal way, if they had been allowed to age naturally like Rachel, the three of them would still have had a night just like this, yacking about old times.

The only thing missing is Rebecca, with her dry wit and her pithy comments and her big smiles, but it’s a pretty okay way to pass a few hours anyway.

Even when Steve and Bucky crawl into bed they don’t talk about releasing the book or how best to do it, or the possible fallout. Bucky catches Steve smirking, delighted and mischievous, at random times, and he thinks Steve might be thinking about it anyway.

(Leave it to Steve Rogers aka The Lump aka Captain America to get all smug over the prospect of pissing a lot of people off with the true story of their queer fucking life.)

Steve turns off the light, pulls Bucky into his arms, and presses kisses into his hairline. Bucky falls asleep with Steve’s heart beating under his ear and wakes up the same way, as if the both of them slept so hard they didn’t move an inch.

After Steve turns the alarm off in the morning, he scoots so close to Bucky they end up nose to nose, and cradles Bucky’s jaw with his wide, warm palm. He says, “No nightmares, Buck. Not a one.” And Bucky believes him.

They exchange smiles in the mirror as they brush their teeth, stay unnecessarily close when getting dressed, fingers grazing skin and hands lingering, and something’s different than all the other mornings they’ve woken up together. Steve’s not shaking off a nightmare, for one, but Bucky _feels_ different, too. There’s something sweet in the air, this morning, and it’s catching.

Maybe this is Steve, actually well rested for once. Maybe this is Bucky, finally paying attention to the tingle Steve’s touch leaves, not just the comfort. Maybe this is the both of them, relieved that they finally get to tell the truth.

(Or part of it, anyway.)

Steve yawns widely, rubbing at his eyes and says, “Maybe after we release the book and everyone starts hounding me, you’ll actually let me sleep in.”

“It’s nearly nine, you lazy bum.” Bucky shakes his head and sits on the end of the bed to pull on two pairs of socks. He blinks when Steve joins him, slotting himself behind Bucky and resting his head against the back of Bucky’s neck.

“Hmm,” says Steve, a happy, sleepy sound, and Bucky’s sure he’s not imagining that this morning is different, _somehow_ , because Steve’s all over him.

Sure, Steve’s always gone out of his way to touch him, and Bucky enjoys the closeness and warmth and intimacy of it, but this is more, _somehow_. There’s heat in it, now, something there that Bucky didn’t notice before.

Bucky presses back into Steve, focusing on Steve’s overly-muscled thighs on either side of his, the warm puff of Steve’s breath on his bare skin, determined to puzzle out the feeling.

Steve makes more happy, sleepy sounds when Bucky squeezes his knees and runs a hand up his leg. His arms wrap low around Bucky’s waist, and Bucky tingles. Steve’s making him shiver, but in a good way. Nothing like dreaming about cryo and waking up too cold.

It would be so easy to push back against Steve’s chest until they are both laying down again. Maybe Steve would let him take off his too tight t-shirt. Maybe Bucky should take off his numerous layers.

Going back to bed seems like the best course of action, but Rachel needs breakfast. The routine can’t stop just because there’s a new buzz to his skin wherever Steve’s touched him.

Bucky pulls Steve into the hall and Steve’s good mood follows them. He walks close behind Bucky towards the kitchen, his fingers hooked in Bucky’s belt loops. Steve’s knees bump Bucky’s thighs, his breath hot on Bucky’s neck, and it makes their combined stride awkward and loping. Steve tugs on the belt loops, first one and then the other, swaying Bucky’s hips back and forth. It’s silly and strange and Bucky goes along with the movement, as Steve chuckles.

By the time they reach the kitchen, Bucky’s grinning widely. Almost laughing, really.

(He’s not done much, if any, laughing in seventy years.)

There’s nothing quite so appealing as a sleepy, goofy Steve Rogers, pressed into his back. The routine obviously needs to be amended so he can get Steve back to bed as quickly as possible. Maybe just cereal and fruit for breakfast.

He’s so wrapped up in Steve he doesn’t even see Rachel, already dressed and seated at the table until she says, “I have a list.”

He stops abruptly to look at her and Steve bumps into Bucky’s back, letting out a sad, offended sound. He drops his forehead to Bucky’s shoulder and could probably take a nice little nap right there if Bucky were willing to stand still for a few minutes. It’s always taken Steve some extra time to wake up.

When Steve wraps his arms around Bucky’s waist, Bucky traces the veins in his forearms and his fingertips buzz with the contact.

Rachel clears her throat, gives him a _look_ , and says, “A list.”

“What?” Bucky cocks his head to the side, studying Rachel. She’s got a red shirt buttoned all the way up to her throat, a long black sweater draped over her shoulders. Her hair is pinned back and her lipstick is immaculate. He’s used to seeing her at least a bit disheveled first thing in the morning, sometimes even in her bathrobe, but she’s sitting up tall, tapping a pen against her open notebook, the one she uses to jot down things she won’t let herself forget.

“A list, James Buchanan. A _list_.”

That doesn’t really clarify anything and Bucky glances over his shoulder to see if Steve is doing a better job of understanding Rachel this morning, but he just shrugs, presses a kiss into Bucky’s neck, and then stumbles over to the coffee maker already bubbling away on the counter.

“You didn’t have to put the coffee on,” Bucky says, but he’s watching Steve. He reaches up to touch the spot where Steve’s lips were, marveling that he can still feel the kiss. “I woulda got up earlier to do it for you.”

“It’s fine.” Rachel huffs. She snaps her fingers until Bucky drags his eyes from Steve’s back - wide and rippling and a frankly ridiculous shape under his too-goddamn-tight t-shirt - to focus on whatever the hell she’s trying to tell him.

She smirks knowingly at him, rolling her eyes, and Bucky’s cheeks warm up. Despite his faint embarrassment, it takes an enormous amount of effort to keep looking at her and not Steve.

“What?” he asks again.

“Do you want to hear about my list or not?”

“I dunno,” he says, wary. Steve returns to his side, handing over a cup of black coffee with just a hair too much sugar. Steve gives his hip a squeeze before sliding into a chair across from Rachel, sipping on his own mug. “Is this the kind of list best discussed on an empty stomach?”

Rachel looks up at the ceiling and sighs. “Nothing is best discussed on an empty stomach. Just be quick about it.”

So Steve gets a few minutes of peace with his coffee while Bucky scrambles eggs and Rachel scribbles away in her notebook. They don’t talk much while they eat, but the playful, affectionate mood of the morning remains. Steve scoots his chair close to Bucky’s, bumping their shoulders together and trapping one of Bucky’s feet between his ankles. They share lingering smiles and Steve gazes up at him from beneath his eyelashes, blushing.

Bucky’s not sure what to make of it. He’s going to need time to figure it out, and more evidence, which will really just involve touching Steve a lot.

But then Steve gets a final bite of egg in his mouth after his third serving and Rachel says, “So, I’ve got a list.”

Steve sits up straight, turns away from Bucky, and clenches his jaw, slipping into Captain America mode as easily he peels off those goddamn t-shirts. Bucky tries not to pout about it.

“Alright, alright,” replies Steve, shaking his head and squaring his shoulders. “Let’s hear it.”

Rachel flips back to a previous page in her notebook, clears her throat, and reads. “Item one, I just have to ask again if you’re sure, both of you. We took the night to sleep on it. So, where are we?”

Bucky turns to look at Steve the same moment Steve turns to look at Bucky. They exchange the kind of smiles they’ve been exchanging since they were kids, Steve’s small and crooked, Bucky’s a wide, toothy grin.

“Yeah,” Steve says, still looking at Bucky. Under the table he reaches out to rest his hand on Bucky’s knee. “We’re in.”

“Bucky?” Rachel asks.

“You heard the captain,” Bucky mutters. “We’re in.”

“Okay.” Rachel takes a deep breath. “Me too.”

Bucky tears his gaze away from Steve to frown at Rachel. “You get a vote?”

“Well,” she says, smiling at him. “Maybe not a full one, but I like to think you’ll listen to my input here. My wife wrote the book, after all, and don’t you think for one minute that I’m not going to get asked about why we kept it a secret for so long.”

“Oh,” Bucky whispers. He’s done a good job imagining how much work Steve’s gonna have to do, giving interviews and defending them, but he didn’t think about what it would look like, for it to come out that two queer activists have been hiding Steve and Bucky’s real relationship all these years.

“Of course I’m too old to do what Steve’s gonna do, but I can give an interview or two. Maybe with Terry Gross. I like Terry Gross. Beck and I went on her program before. Oh, that can be item fifty-two!” Rachel flips a few pages.

“Fifty-two!” Steve demands. He shares another worried glance with Bucky, squeezing his knee under the table. He’s done that before, but it’s proving more distracting this morning, so Bucky stares too intently at Rachel to keep his focus. “Jesus, how long is this list?”

“ _Call Terry Gross,_ ” Rachel murmurs as she writes. “This list is now fifty-two items long, Steve, obviously. Do keep up.”

Bucky snorts and Steve gently knocks into his shoulder in protest.

“What’s item two, Rach?” he asks.

She flips around in her notebook again, reaching for her giant Sherlock Holmes looking magnifying glass. “Ah, yes. Item two. I don’t want the money.”

Bucky blinks. He figured the first dozen items on her list would be measures to minimize the damage or keep Steve safe or fulfill some wish Beck expressed, when the two of them had discussed this over the years.

Money is just about the last thing Bucky expected Rachel to be worrying about.

“What money?” Steve asks, equally surprised by item two.

“When we publish the book.” Rachel huffs and rolls her eyes, like she is constantly waiting for Steve to catch up. It makes Bucky grin. “It’s gonna sell like hot cakes. And Beck’s my wife, so I get the money, right?”

“Oh,” says Steve. “Yeah, I guess. I don’t know how any of that works, but Beck had it wired with her publisher before… well, _before_.”

All three of them wince.

Beck apparently went to great lengths to prepare Rachel and Steve for her death, but Bucky missed the whole thing entirely. Most days, he’s glad he didn’t have to live through watching his sister die - and glad she didn’t have to live with the knowledge of what happened to him, what he did - but this morning her absence is an open wound.

This is her book, her vision for how she always wanted tell the world about Bucky and Steve, and Bucky’d give nearly anything to have her here now to see it out. To boss them around like she used to, and to give them kernels of wisdom she’d gathered over her long, long life.

“It’s all gotta go to the foundation.” Rachel blinks a couple tears from her eyes but she presses on. “The money will go to the home and to the scholarship fund and a couple other charities. Olive’s been talking about opening more homes in Harlem and the Bronx, so maybe this would be a good time to let her start in on that project. All that needs to be handled before publishing and I’m too old to figure it out.”

“I’ll figure it out,” Steve assures her. “You’ll probably still have to sign some stuff.”

Rachel sighs, her nose in the air. “If I must.”

“Rach, you’re too good, you know that?” Bucky murmurs. He leans across the table to take her hand and she holds on tight. “Real generous. I woulda never thought of that. This one would’ve eventually,” he says, nodding at Steve, “but you always come up with the bright ideas first. It’s real generous of yah.”

“Oh, hush,” Rachel says, rolling her eyes and going back to her notebook. “Not that the book will bring in all that much money. Rebecca’s first one didn’t get much attention, outside some very specific academic circles, but she’s got such hopes for this second one. And I’ve been taking on so many big clients recently, we don’t need the money. We’re comfortable enough.”

Steve sits up straight, like he’s very much wishing that Rachel’s memory problems were some sort of living, breathing monster, that he could effectively fight off by punching it enough. He doesn’t know what to say, instead just sits there looking horrified and heartbroken.

Rachel’s picked up on the stricken look on Steve's face, and she starts gnawing on her bottom lip and messing with her hair, like she does when she’s worried. She yanks hand out of Bucky’s, curling her fingers around the arms of her chair.

“That was mighty kind of you, Rach.” Bucky says. “Beck’s written a whole bunch of books, but this one’s the most personal. It’s about me and Steve and you. Our lives together. It’s my favorite thing Beck ever wrote.”

Rachel still looks confused, her many wrinkles around her mouth and eyes more pronounced.  She glances at Steve, wary, but she smiles at Bucky.

“It’s my favorite, too,” Rachel says. “What a way to come out.”

Steve gets with the program finally, and gives her an easy smile. “It’s gonna be great, Rach.  Just like Beck planned.”

“She’d be proud,” Rachel murmurs. “I’m so proud.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re all proud as shit of this big lug,” Bucky says. He stands up and still feels Steve’s hand on his knee. “I’m cleaning the kitchen. You want a tea?”

“Yes,” she says and Bucky grabs her empty mug. “And everyone’s proud as shit of you too, James Buchanan.”

“Yeah, we are,” agrees Steve.

* * *

It takes them two days just to talk through the list, taking breaks when Rachel gets confused or Steve gets pissed or Bucky gets anxious. Mostly, it’s just a lot of mental preparation for how people might react and what the fallout might look like. Steve talks on the phone a lot, adding items to the list until he’s satisfied that at least he has some plan of attack on how to proceed.

The list is mostly things to think about, not organized in any specific priority, so on the third day Steve starts with item twelve (come out to the rest of the Avengers), item twenty-seven (talk to Pepper Potts and Stark PR), and item three (call Beck’s publisher).

Steve’s got a late morning meeting in the city, meeting his 21st century friends at The Tower, and he’s quiet as he gets ready. Gone are the silly, sleepy touches, and the lingering grins from the previous few mornings. He eats his breakfast and clenches his jaw and jiggles his leg under the table.

Bucky watches him, frowning. His palms get sweaty as he wracks his brain for a way to help, to make Steve’s upcoming conversation with his team a little easier, but he’s got nothing. It’s not like he can tag along and hold Steve’s hand and glare at anyone who says the wrong thing.

Steve’s stirring his oatmeal, staring at the tabletop, and Rachel catches Bucky’s eye. She nods at him and says, “Steve, you’ll drive the Jeep right?”

Steve startles and blinks at her. “I was just gonna take the train.”

“I’m not sure I’m up for the train, bubbeleh. My knees hurt today and the wheelchair is such a pain.”

Bucky lets out a big breath and when Rachel glances at him, he nods back, understanding her perfectly. She wants to be there for Steve but won’t leave if Bucky has some sudden need for her to stay.

He’s been alone in the apartment before, and although he’s never particularly thrilled to watch either of them leave, he’s so fucking relieved that Steve won’t be alone for this.

“You’re coming with me?” Steve perks up a little.

“I haven’t seen Tony in an age,” Rachel replies, but everyone knows the real reason she’ll be going with Steve.

Steve nods, but then frowns. “Naw, I’m fine. No need for you to trouble yourself. I know you and Buck got big plans knitting or baking or whatever today.”

Bucky snorts. “She’s going with you, pal. Just check your phone a lot, okay? I’ll keep Rachel’s. So I can talk to you.”

“You sure?”

Bucky nods and Steve sighs, moving like he’s planning on standing and leaving right now, despite his full bowl of oatmeal.

“Eat first,” Bucky insists.

Steve sighs some more and rolls his eyes and makes a big scene, acts all put upon, but he’s smiling as he eats.

* * *

Bucky waits with Steve by the front door, while Rachel fusses over her lipstick in the bathroom. He’s pretty fucking certain that her dallying has less to do with vanity and more to do with giving Bucky a moment of privacy with Steve.

Steve’s looking at his feet, hands hidden deep in the pockets of his jeans, and Bucky wonders what he’s gonna say to his new, 21st century team of superheros.

_Fellas, I just wanna let you know I spent a good part of 1940 with Bucky’s dick in my mouth._

Captain America is known for some goddamn inspirational diatribes, so it will probably be less vulgar and more eloquent.

_Fellas, I just wanna let you know that Bucky Barnes is the love of my goddamn life and I spent a good part of 1940 trying to get him to marry me, might’ve succeeded, too, if it weren’t for a pesky little thing called WWII. Sure, he did a whole lot of murdering in recent decades, but I don’t like to talk about that._

In bed last night Bucky’d tried to get Steve to practice this conversation - seeing as neither of them have a lick of experience verbally coming out, it was mostly just kissing each other and hanging out in queer bars back in the day - but Steve said he’s just gonna wing it.

(That had about a million irritating-as-all-shit memories surfacing, of similar conversations from the war; Bucky wanting a step-by-step plan and Steve wanting to figure it out on the fly and the two of them compromising somewhere in the middle.)

“Why am I so nervous?” Steve asks, shuffling his feet. “Nat and Sam already know. So it’s really just Tony and Pepper and Bruce. And I know they ain’t gonna hate me for it. Tony gave me a lecture on marriage equality once like he was expecting me to object and I laughed for about three hours.”

Bucky smiles, running his hands up Steve’s arms and resting them against his neck.

“Maybe I should just show them one of the naked sketches I did of the two of us,” Steve murmurs, resting his forehead on Bucky’s.

Bucky laughs. “You want them to see us naked?”

“No. Pepper’s a real classy lady. I just want everyone to _know_ without me having to _tell_ them.”

Steve’s pouting now. Bucky’s always been distracted by Steve’s red mouth, but it’s different now. He wants to lick it and nibble on it, wants to know how it tastes. For the life of him, he can’t remember.

Bucky cocks his head to the side, ignores what Steve says, and stares at the way his mouth moves. He pushes for more details from one of his endless supply of kissing memories, trying to remember how it felt to kiss Steve and what his mouth tastes like.

A headache prickles at his temples for the first time in weeks, and Bucky tears his gaze away, ears tuning back into Steve’s voice.

“What the hell is Rachel doing to herself in that bathroom?” Steve’s frowning in the direction of the bedrooms and Bucky refrains from staring at his mouth, only to stare at the muscles working under his skin as he clenches his jaw.

He’s got to dig his fingernails into the palm of his flesh hand as a reminder to cut that shit out and pay attention.

“It’s like waiting around for you to be ready to go out back in the day,” Steve mutters.

Bucky shakes his head, chuckles, pulls Steve into a hug, and says, “You stay safe out there.”

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve replies. “Always.”

When Steve pulls back a few seconds later, he ducks his head to kiss Bucky, close to his mouth but not quite touching his lips. It’s something Steve does now, chaste kisses on Bucky’s cheek or forehead or neck, to say hello or goodbye, good morning or good night or I’m glad you’re here.

Bucky’s got good memories of kissing Steve for real, and good memories of what it lead to, but he’s never managed to really remember how it felt. He likes being close to Steve, likes that the physical closeness is just another expression of the emotional closeness he feels, but the sex parts. The wanting parts. That’s a goddamn mystery. He remembers it happening, but he does not remember how it felt to want it, to need it.

But a coupla mornings ago, Bucky woke up with his skin buzzing where Steve touched him, his gut stirring, and pulse racing. He thinks he's finally starting to get it. Steve’s lips brush his cheek and Bucky’s face heats up and his heart hammers away in his chest and it’s right there, on the edge of his memory.

It’s a whole new facet to wanting, more overwhelming than the realization of just a few months ago that he’s got choices now, figuring out what foods he likes to eat and what activities fill his day. The way he wants to remember Steve is more compelling than discovering all those things he doesn’t _want_ \- being cold, Rachel to be sad, Steve to be gone.

This is new. This is active wanting. And he wants desperately, both to remember old wanting and to connect that to the new tingling on his skin when Steve touches him.

Just like usual, Steve lingers with his lips against Bucky’s skin for a second, and then pulls back.

Except today Steve’s gonna go out there without Bucky looking out for him, to take the first step to telling the world their story, and he has to do it all on his own, while Bucky hides away in the safety of their apartment. And Bucky’s spent days with his skin buzzing from Steve’s touch. He understands all those memories of the two of them together in bed better now. He wants to be the one with his lips touching Steve’s skin.

When Steve moves away, Bucky pulls him back, and for one terrifying moment Bucky’s sure he’s actually going to do it. He’s going to kiss Steve for the first time in a lifetime. He’s going to remember what Steve tastes like.

With his lips millimeters from Steve, he diverts at the last moment and kisses Steve on his cheek. That’s enough to send him into a goddamn tizzy, but for such a little thing, it’s still good, warm and familiar.

Bucky presses his nose into Steve’s cheek for a few seconds, hiding his face, until he hears the creak of Rachel’s bedroom door, the uneven rhythm of her footsteps and cane on the floor. He clears his throat and takes a step back, peeking up at Steve from behind the curtain of his hair.

It’s pretty fucking gratifying, to see Steve looking as gobsmacked and awestruck as Bucky feels. And over something as little as a kiss on the cheek, too.

They stare at each other, just standing there by the front door for the few seconds it takes Rachel to make her way through the apartment.

“Ready?” she asks.

“Huh?” Steve blinks at Rachel, looks at Bucky’s mouth for a second, and then goes back to blinking at Rachel. “Oh, uh. Yeah. Sure. Let’s get going.”

Steve pulls Bucky into another quick hug, kisses his cheek again, and sets off to open the front door.

With his back turned, Rachel smirks at Bucky and then lifts her hand in a high five. It’s a pretty weird modern phenomenon, the high five, but it sure seems appropriate in the moment.

* * *

_I think I broke Tony’s brain._

Rachel’s phone vibrates in Bucky’s palm, Steve’s message displaying on the front. He’s on the roof, sitting crossed-legged between a couple of raised beds, the dirt covered with straw for the winter. In the spring, the kids will come up here to plant broccoli and spinach and onion and beets like a proper victory garden. Rachel says Bucky can help. He’s looking forward to trying his hand at gardening.

Lips wrapped around a cigarette, Bucky pulls smoke into his lungs and stares at the screen until it buzzes with another message, a picture this time. There is Tony Stark - looking alarmingly like his dead father, the one Bucky killed - cross-eyed and gobsmacked. His mouth is open, eyebrows raised, stupid facial hair bunched strangely around his mouth as he gapes.

Bucky holds his cigarette between his lips - the one good thing about having the apartment to himself is sneaking away for his first cigarette in weeks - and replies.

_Do I need to come down there and kick this clown’s ass?_

Even as he sends the message, he’s not sure he could actually do what he’s offering. He does not like killing people. Even hitting the heavy bag makes him queasy sometimes and sparring with Steve was a no fucking go the one time they tried it. Most modern action movies are banned from the apartment because there is just so much fucking violence and it leaves Bucky shaky.

Still, he’s borderline sure he could overcome all that to sock Tony Stark in the jaw if he’s getting nasty with Steve, just like he used to do with the fellas who messed with Steve back in the day.

It might be a fucking dumbass reason to blow his cover, but Bucky’s willing to give it a shot.

_No, he’s just surprised. He always did buy into the whole Captain America image a little too much. You should see the rooms he put together for me here. Like Lady Liberty threw up red, white, and blue everywhere._

Bucky shakes his head and types back.

_What an asshole._

_He means well._

_So it’s okay?_

_Yeah, honey. It’s good. We’re setting up a meeting with the publisher and PR for later in the week. Everyone wants an advance copy of Beck’s book. Should be home in a couple hours._

Tension drains from Bucky’s shoulders. He’s still not gonna feel quite right until Steve and Rachel are both home safe, but Steve says it’s good and Bucky relaxes, just a fraction.

The phone buzzes with another message from Steve.

_Love you._

Bucky smiles and takes another drag from his cigarette, shivering down in his coat against the cold. The nano mask is starting to itch, but he’ll endure it for another few minutes to be under the open sky.

_Come home soon._

* * *

With PR involved, the list gets a whole lot longer and turns into a solid plan, an elaborate schedule of public appearances, a book release date, and interviews.

Steve’s at The Tower for meetings nearly every day, his departure becoming part of the routine. It’s Bucky’s least favorite part, and Steve’s too, if his hemming and hawing every morning is any indication.

Rachel and Bucky fill their days like they used to before Steve came home. They bake and knit and nap. Bucky will talk out some detail of a memory and more often than not it will send Rachel off on a tangent. Bucky nods and listens and adds to his whiteboard timeline, labeling it with corresponding page numbers in his copy of Beck’s book where he writes out more notes.

Bucky spends more time with his sex memories in the privacy of his own mind, turning them over and studying them and trying to fit them into his timeline. He absolutely does not discuss them with Rachel.

Steve usually comes home while Bucky’s finishing up cooking dinner. He unwraps the scarf Bucky made him from around his neck, dumping it along with his jacket on a chair at the table before plastering himself to Bucky’s back. He hooks his chin over Bucky’s shoulder and glances down at whatever’s cooking away on the stove. “Looks good, honey,” he whispers in Bucky’s ear and Bucky shakes a little, but in the good way, the tingly, warm, needy way.

Steve slips his hands under Bucky’s sweater, trying to warm his cold fingers on Bucky’s skin. Then Bucky shivers, in the decidedly less pleasant way, and glares at Steve over his shoulder. He still lets Steve stay that way until they are both warm or until dinner is done, whichever comes first.

Most days, Bucky’s feeling bold enough to turn in Steve’s arms to kiss him on the cheek or the forehead or the chin, to say _hello_ and to say _I missed you_ and to say _I’m sorry you’re out there figuring out how to explain your romantic relationship with your best friend turned assassin to the public._

Sometimes, he’ll kiss Steve’s cheek, then his chin, then his other cheek. Sometimes, he’ll do a circuit around Steve’s face, insisting Steve shut his eyes so he can get his eyelids too, and just keeps going until Steve’s laughing too hard to stay upright or Rachel’s yelling that their dinner’s about to burn.

Bucky’s gonna work his way up to Steve’s mouth, eventually. Just as soon as he gets used to all these big, bubbly feelings again.

Even with all the meetings, Steve sits down to dinner with them every night.

“So they added an item to the list,” Steve says, a week after his first meeting at The Tower. He’s stirring his bowl of curry and not eating.

“Oh?” asks Rachel, barely paying attention. She’s had a bad memory day, called Bucky _Beck_ three times over the course of the afternoon and was convinced for a solid hour that Beck was flying in from San Francisco, that they needed to pick her up at JFK.

She’s been better since her nap, but Bucky’s on edge anyway.

Steve’s hesitation spitting out whatever the hell he’s gotta say sure ain’t helping with Bucky’s nerves.

“Yeah, we’re up to item ninety-two,” Steve says.

“What’s item ninety-two?” Rachel asks.

“Social media,” Steve says with great solemnity. He shudders, like this item is more daunting than coming out to the Avengers and all the interviews they are setting up for him combined.

Rachel actually laughs at him. It makes Bucky smile, but Steve’s still frowning, a little green around the gills.

“I’m supposed to be letting the public see my real personality,” Steve continues. “So they ain’t quite as shocked that Captain America would have this whole queer life before the war.”

“How’re you gonna do that?” Rachel asks.

“Well, I’m going to be tweeting things, I guess?” Steve grimaces again. “Links to LGBT charities and other stuff I’m involved with and articles and shit. Sam thinks it’s a good idea to put some of my art up on instagram, trying to get away from whatever hyper-conservative image Captain America turned into during the Cold War.”

Bucky was very busy for most of the Cold War. He closes his eyes and keeps them shut for a the few seconds it takes to beat the memories back into the locked box in his head. He works on his breathing, keeping his face impassive, and neither Steve nor Rachel notice his little slip into the past.

“Sam says it’s a good way to have some control over how people see me?” Steve says. “I dunno, it sounds like a whole lot of work.”

Bucky wishes he could lock Sam Wilson up in a goddamn box, never to be thought about again. One day, he will get over his irrational jealousy and dislike of Steve’s bird friend, but not fucking today.

“That’s not the worst idea,” Rachel says.

“I was thinking of having him come over tomorrow,” Steve says. He peeks up at Bucky from beneath his eyelashes, pleading and perfect. His mouth is red and pouty. Eyes bright. “What do you think, honey?”

Bucky sighs.

“It’s better then you leaving, that’s for sure,” Bucky mutters, “But I ain’t gonna clean the apartment for him.”

Steve grins. “The apartment’s pretty clean.”

“It could be cleaner.”

Steve laughs, kisses Bucky’s cheek, and finally digs into his supper with an appropriate level of enthusiasm.

Bucky watches him eat and thinks how easy it woulda been, to just turn his head and make sure Steve got his lips instead.

* * *

The little spider comes to take Rachel away while Sam Wilson’s in the apartment. They’re getting their hair done and their nails done and just a lot of things _done_ , so Bucky’s left all on his own to avoid Steve’s guest in the livingroom.

He wallows in the bedroom for a while, listening the murmur of voices coming from the living room. Sam Wilson’s braying, jovial laugh sets his teeth on edge.

Resolved to do something useful, he cleans their room. It turns out gathering all of Steve’s shit and putting it in its proper place only takes seven goddamn minutes. The world should really know that Captain America can’t manage to put his clothes in a hamper and instead dumps them on the floor two goddamn feet away. Maybe he can tweet about it.

The bedroom’s starting to feel too small and too cold, so Bucky ventures out into the hall. He considers the heavy bag in the other bedroom, but gets shivering and clammy when he thinks about punching, so that’s out. Rachel’s bedroom is clean. So are the bathrooms.

He’ll have to wander into view of Sam Wilson to go to any other room in the apartment.

Bucky takes a deep breath and slips down the hall. Maybe he can sneak into the kitchen without them catching him at it. All that Winter Soldier stealth comes in handy at such times, and his socked feet make no noise on the hardwood.

He’s nearly made it into the kitchen when Steve says, “Hey, Buck!”

Bucky scowls, does not glance at Sam Wilson, grunts, and waves at Steve over his shoulder as he slips into the kitchen.

“That dude is _sneaky_ ,” says Sam Wilson from the livingroom.

“Yeah,” Steve replies, sounding like a dreamy, love-sick asshole.

Bucky smirks as he gets the veggies for dinner out of the fridge. They’re having fajitas. It involves a lot of slicing and there’s no reason not to do it now, hours before dinner time. He cuts up onion and pepper and zucchini slower than he normally would, each slice thin and perfectly uniform, as he listens to Sam Wilson explain social media to Steve.

Steve complains to high heaven about Twitter until Sam finally agrees to just run Steve’s account for a while (apparently some SHIELD lackey was doing this anyway before DC, but she might’ve been a Nazi for all they know). In exchange he demands a copy of Beck’s book immediately.

Steve’s a little more amenable to Instagram after Sam show him some example accounts he can follow and Steve says, “Oh, pretty,” a lot.

No less than four times, Sam Wilson says, “Don’t look at the comments. Just don’t do it, man. No good ever came from arguing with anonymous assholes on the internet and I just know you won’t be able to let anything go.”

When Bucky’s finally done slicing all the vegetables they need for dinner and more, Steve and Sam Wilson have moved on to figuring out what art Steve should start putting online. Bucky gets curious enough to poke his head outta the kitchen to watch.

Steve’s on the couch and Sam’s in a chair, both leaning close to the corner of the coffee table where Steve’s poking at Beck’s tablet.

“Whoa,” says Sam Wilson.

“Yeah, those were some friends of ours. Peter and Raul. Probably shouldn’t go posting that until after the book comes out.”

“Yeah, wow. You know you drew those guys _kissing_ right?”

Steve laughs and from the kitchen even Bucky cracks a smile. “That’s pretty tame, Sam. I funded most of our drinking habit back in the day with dirty commissions for fellas at the bar.”

“Steve Rogers! You lawbreaker, you! I have never been more impressed.”

Steve laughs again and he sounds so happy, so free, that Bucky forgives Sam Wilson for the grave insult of existing in Bucky’s home and getting so much of Steve’s attention.

Bucky shuffles out of the kitchen, wringing his hands and unsure. He wants a piece of Steve’s joy, wants to sit close and look at Steve’s art. He wants to brag about all the fellas that came into Sully’s from all over the city, just to hire Steve to draw something nice and blue.

But his life with Steve here at the apartment is so distinctly separate from the life Steve’s got when he leaves, with his Avengers and his world-saving and his friends. Bucky doesn’t know how to bridge the divide. And this friend, Sam Wilson, who is there for Steve in ways Bucky can’t be (and who somehow didn’t die when Bucky ripped his wings apart in DC) seems particularly unapproachable.

The indecision leaves Bucky loitering like a goddamn awkward asshole between the kitchen and the living room.

He clears his throat and shuffles his feet, his metal arm whirring, and Steve glances up. If Steve was laughing and happy before, he’s absolutely beaming now, always so thrilled to see Bucky that he’s just bursting with it.

The same stupid expression can probably be seen on Bucky’s face, too.

“C’mere, honey,” he says, extending a hand. And Sam Wilson’s eyebrows go way up at that, but Bucky just keeps looking at Steve. “Wanna take a look?”

So Bucky goes to him, taking a long way around the living room to avoid going near Sam Wilson, until he ends up on the couch, on Steve’s other side. Steve lifts his arm and Bucky glares at Sam Wilson even as he slowly slides closer to Steve, settling with the comforting weight of Steve’s arm around his shoulders.

Sam Wilson’s eyebrows are still nearly reaching his hairline, and he leans back from Bucky like he thinks Bucky might once again try to drop kick him off a building. It’s goddamn irritating, to be regarded with so much suspicion in his own fucking home.

It’s also possibly warranted, and a little gratifying.

“Sam,” says Steve, holding Bucky close. “You haven’t really met Bucky. Last time you were over here doesn’t count.”

Bucky snorts, because last time Sam was here, Bucky was hiding under and table and refused to even acknowledge the strangers in his home. Of course Steve is also not counting that first time they really met in DC.

“This is Bucky,” Steve continues, squeezing Bucky’s shoulder. “Buck, meet Sam.”

“We’ve met,” Bucky mutters.

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it?” asks Sam.

“I dunno know, birdbrain. Would you rather call it me kicking your ass?”

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve admonishes. It’s not very effective scolding because Steve presses a kiss to his temple a moment later.

Sam scowls at him.

Bucky scowls back, even though he’s starting to enjoy himself.

Somehow, it’s kinda nice to have someone around who’s not so endlessly careful with him. And Bucky needs that, from Rachel and Steve, but it’s gratifying to have Sam Wilson here, glaring at him at him for being a dick and not immediately forgiving him for the whole trying-to-kill-him thing.

“Okay!” Steve says, overly bright and cheery. He reaches for the tablet, swiping to show the next picture. Yesterday he got Tam to teach him how to upload all these pictures from his sketchbooks to a computer in preparation. “Oh, this is a good one.”

It’s Bucky on the fire escape on some summer night long forgotten, smoking. Even in pencil, he looks sweaty and uncomfortable in the heat, but content, too. He’s staring right out of the page, smirking. That smirk was for Steve, no doubt. It’s the kind of portrait that seems to stare you right in the eyes, no matter where you stand, like the eyes are tracking the viewer’s movements.

“You’re a talented dude, Rogers,” Sam says, nodding at the drawing. “What else do you got?”

They keep at it for a couple hours. Bucky might not want Sam in his apartment, but somehow he doesn’t mind Steve’s eyes lighting up when he talks about the background from some drawing. Sam asks questions, laughs when Steve talks about how impossible it was to get Bucky or Beck to sit still long enough to get a decent sketch outta them, without giving them a couple glasses of whiskey each.

This is what Steve’s gonna do with the public at large in a few weeks, let them in on this life they had, correct the public record and the history of Captain America. Sam Wilson’s not a bad place to start.

By the time Rachel and Natasha get home - hair and nails and god knows what else _done_ \- they’ve settled on Steve’s first post to Instagram. It’s a detailed action scene, done in colored pencil on some rare occasion they could afford anything but charcoal, of Bucky and Beck crowded together at the piano, laughing or singing or maybe both. Various other members of the Barnes and Buchanan families loiter in the background; it’s a party in full swing.

Steve gets about a thousand followers in seconds. Sam turns off the notifications when the tablet nearly buzzes off the table. Steve keeps his arm around Bucky, running his fingers through Bucky’s hair.

And somehow, Bucky’s content enough to make enough fajitas for everyone. He does not say much, can’t even look at Natasha, and he sticks closer to Steve than their company probably finds comfortable, but it’s not a bad night. The din of everyone talking at once almost sounds like a bar from decades ago.

* * *

The first pre-recorded interview airs the night before the book’s release date.

Steve and Bucky take a nap that afternoon, lingering in bed longer than they normally would and breathing the same air. Bucky runs his fingers over Steve’s cheeks and kisses his eyelids, cheeks, temple. Steve breathes, steady and even.

“You ready?” Bucky whispers and Steve’s grip on his hip gets a little tighter.

“Does it matter? Too late to turn back now.”

“Yeah.”

“But I’m good, Buck. We’re good.”

Bucky stares at Steve’s mouth some more, trying to figure out if now is a good time to lick the seam of his lips and push him back into the pillows for awhile.

“Hey!” Rachel’s pounding on the bedroom door and Steve startles. Bucky glares at the door. “We’re gonna be late!”

Steve kisses Bucky’s forehead and that shouldn’t be a disappointment, but it kinda _is_ because he’s still fixated on licking the seam of Steve’s lips, despite the way he’s been avoiding that kind of kissing.

Steve rolls out of bed, pats down his hair in the mirror, and then slips his feet into sneakers. “C’mon, Buck,” Steve says, offering a hand.

Rachel’s waiting in the hall with the nano mask and the skin sleeve. Bucky sighs about a thousand fucking times as he pulls his hair up, rolls on the sleeve, and then secures his Bob face. Steve frowns at him, tucking a piece of hair behind Bucky’s ear, and then buttons Bucky’s sleeve over his hidden metal wrist, tucking his hoodie sleeve down over that.

“Ready?” Rachel asks, sounding like she’s already about to cry.

Bucky takes a deep breath and mentally prepares himself for the evening.

“Sure, Rach,” Steve says, wrapping an arm around her frail shoulders. “Sure.”

And they set off to the elevators where Bucky stuffs his hands into his hoodie pocket to keep from holding Steve’s hand.

He would very much fucking prefer to watch this interview with just Steve and Rachel in their apartment, but Rachel was so earnest when she asked to watch it with the kids. She turned her big brown eyes on them, pleading even as she said, _“Nevermind, let’s just watch it here the three of us,”_ and Steve and Bucky were both powerless to deny her anything.

She herds them downstairs to the rec room, where all the kids that currently live in the home and a couple that no longer do and all the staff who work here (even the ones off duty) are packed onto couches in the rec room or sprawled out on the floor with snacks.

Bucky’s disguised face itches, but he’s secure enough with his Bob mask to relax. He knows these people. They’re Rachel’s family, and being around them is like hanging out in a much more wholesome version of Sully’s old bar.

He can’t sit in Steve’s lap down here with all the kids around or hold Rachel’s hand without blowing his cover, so he commandeers an easy chair, pulling up his legs and crossing them, while Steve gets accosted by the kids and Tam makes room for Rachel on the couch.

All the kids are talking at once, and Steve’s bright red and bashful, rubbing the back of his neck and smiling as they ask, ”Are you really coming out? On TV! To _everyone_? I’m so sorry about Bucky Barnes. Do you think he’s okay? I know you’ll find him again someday!”

Tam, who had the insider info on this back when they first moved into the home, just smirks and pats Rachel’s shoulder while Rachel dries her eyes on a handkerchief. She warned him that she’d be crying happy tears all goddamn night, but he still doesn’t fucking like it.

It wouldn’t make a lot of sense for Bob to glare at Rachel until she stops with the fucking waterworks so he just messes with the sleeves of his hoodie and ignores the presence of the knife strapped to his ankle.

Tam nods a greeting and Bucky nods back, slumping in his seat and doing his best to not look like the infamous assassin in the news these days or Steve Rogers’ old sweetheart.

“So,” says Tam, hunched over and crossing their arms over their chest. “I know you’ve probably been a little distracted, now that Captain America’s your roommate, but you think we could maybe start up with those lessons again?”

Piano lessons were a part of his routine that he actually liked, before Steve came home. There’s really no reason not to pick up them again.

“Yeah,” he decides. “In a couple weeks?”

“Deal!” says Tam, absolutely beaming. Their expression makes Bucky feel a little better about being surrounded by all these goddamn people to watch Steve’s big interview.

“Hey,” says Mia, a few seconds later, turning up the volume on the television. “It’s starting!”

The kids all go quiet fast, finding their seats again. Steve squeezes in next to Rachel, throwing an arm over her frail old shoulders and sharing a rueful grin with Bucky over the top of her head. Bucky attempts a smile, but he’s clearly still pouting over the fact that he’s not the one tucked into Steve’s side.

The interviewer seems nice enough, some good-looking white fella with grey hair and a fine cut suit. He was specially chosen for this prime time special because he’s queer, apparently.

It’s a good interview, starting with a series of direct questions about the recent revelation that James Buchanan Barnes is the Winter Soldier. The Steve on the television clenches his jaw and talks about Azzano and finding Bucky on the table, the theory that Bucky got something like Steve’s own serum that had him surviving the fall and the loss of his arm and all the torture and experimentation afterward.

It’s more detail than Steve’s shared yet, and Bucky knew Steve would say all this, because he made Steve recount the interview after he gave it, word for word. It’s still hard to hear, still makes his stomach ache, and his Azzano memories hiss around at the edge of his mind.

But talking about it is _working_.

Around them, everyone is glued to the television, entranced and horrified in equal measure as Steve speaks so softly, so sincerely, all his pain etched into every line of his face.

Bucky might’ve known what words Steve’s gonna say, but nothing could prepare him for that look on Steve’s face. And if he knew Steve would look so fucking wrecked, he woulda told Rachel no when she wanted to watch with the kids. He would’ve kept Steve wrapped up in bed all night. He wouldn't have watched this fucking interview at all.

Steve talks about the Hydra files Natasha released to the public that outline some of the methods they used to make him comply, without going into the specific details. “And that’s not the worst of it. The rest is classified, but it gets much, much worse from there.”

“So before the incident in DC last year,” the interviewer says, and Bucky doesn’t want to hear this part. He looks at Steve next to him, only to find him looking right back. And it’s easier to breathe. “You thought Sergeant Barnes died in 1945.”

“That’s right.”

“And what was that like, to realize he was alive? To learn what was done to him? And what he was forced to do?”

On camera, Steve takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He winces and breathes and Bucky knows what he’s going to say, but it’s so much more painful to see it than hearing Steve repeat it in a monotone, in the comfort of their bed.

“There’s all this stuff you tell yourself, you know?” Steve on TV says. “When you lose the love of your life like that, in such a brutal, sudden moment. Stuff you tell yourself to try to make sense of it, to make it better, even though nothing really can. So before DC I’d think, well, at least it was quick. At least he was done fighting. At least the war was over for him. At least he was at peace. _At least, at least, at least._ ”

On screen Steve clears his throat, gets choked up, and Bucky just keeps looking at Steve on the couch, with Rachel weeping and tucked under his arm.

“At least he was in no more _pain_.” On screen, Steve takes a deep breath and then another. “But it wasn’t like that. I saw him in DC and he didn’t know me and I knew it had been nothing but pain for him, even before I saw the files on what they actually did to make him forget, to make him their weapon. We fought in DC, and I knew that he’d endured horrors beyond imagining. It’s been hard, living with that knowledge, but it’s so much harder with the way that people are talking about him, like he chose this, like he’s responsible for every evil thing Hydra did.”

The interviewer draws out the pause, lets Steve breathe and lets his message settle with the audience.

“You referred to Sergeant Barnes as the love of your life,” says the interviewer, speaking gently. “What do you mean by that?”

A hush falls over the room.

The hair on Bucky’s flesh hand stands on end, and he barely breathes, right along with everyone else. This is a moment of tension he recognizes, like the beat before a long shot, when his whole world would go still and soft and focused, the tension anticipatory instead of painful, his finger hovering over a trigger, ready to exhale and _squeeze_.

Bucky sits up a little straighter.

Around him, Olive reaches out to hold Mia’s hand and the kids lean forward in their seats or huddle closer together on the floor. Rachel covers her mouth with her hand. The Steve here in the living room turns to stare at Bucky, and Bucky can feel his gaze, but he’s too focused on the Steve on the screen.

Pre-recorded Steve pauses after the question gets asked, and actually relaxes, like this is the easiest thing in the world to talk about, after discussing The Winter Solider in detail for weeks. He lets out a big breath, smiles crookedly, and says, “Well, I think love of my life is pretty clear. Before the war, he was everything to me. It’s so strange now, the way history doesn’t seem to realize that two of us were in a romantic relationship. We got together in ‘39, stayed together through the war, right up until he fell.”

Despite everyone in the room knowing exactly what Steve was gonna do in this interview, there are gasps of shock and awe. Bucky swears he can hear the whole city gasping, but for the people in this room it’s not the surprise that Steve’s queer, it’s the disbelief that this legend is _out_ , the shock that Captain America, the larger than life icon and superhero, the myth, belongs to them, and now everyone knows it.

This is Captain America telling the whole world he’s queer and telling this room full of kids they’re not alone. Bucky doesn’t really remember agonizing over loving Steve, like he must have, once upon a time, but he imagines a moment like this would’ve affected him profoundly.

Bucky really didn’t understand, not until Steve on the screen says what he says like he’s been holding back saying it for a century, not until Mia cries a little and Olive kisses her cheek, not until Rachel sobs into Steve’s chest, and the kids stare up at the television with such expressions of hope and awe.

He didn’t understand, until just now, what a big goddamn deal this is.

They’ve been so focused on managing the fallout, anticipating the negative, that Bucky didn’t fully consider the good parts.

Steve strokes Rachel’s hair, and Bucky stares at him over Rachel’s head, blown away by how brave Steve is, how good Steve is.

The rest of the interview seems to go well. They finally talk about Beck’s book. Steve on the screen seems like a new man as he talks about the life they had, how he hopes this book will be a reminder to everyone that Bucky was a person, a hero and a brother and a lover, before unimaginable evil took him and hurt him and made him do things he’d rather die than do on his own.

Bucky has to stare at the floor during that part.

(He doesn’t buy that bullshit, but if Steve needs to say it then Bucky will sit here quietly and not deny it up and down.)

Gone is Stiff Steve from all the other interviews he’s given since the news broke. Compared to the calm, earnest way he speaks now, it’s painfully obvious how stressed he was before, how angry.

Steve talks about the cracks he saw in the Winter Soldier's brainwashing as they fought over the Potomac. He talks about how his Bucky Barnes fought through years of torture and conditioning save Steve’s life. He talks about how sure he is, that where ever Bucky is now, that he’s coming back to himself, that he’s remembering.

“What do you hope happens next?” asks the interviewer, after Steve reminds the public that Bucky’s simply wanted for questioning, that he’s not on any terrorist watch lists, because it’s so obvious that he did not act on his own accord. “If you do manage to find Sergeant Barnes, what is your hope for him?”

“Mostly,” Steve says, “I just want him to come home. I want him to feel safe again.”

* * *

The alarm goes off hours earlier than usual on the day Beck’s book goes on sale. Tony Stark promised to have a car waiting to take Steve into the city out front by 0700. Steve’s got a full day, of book signings and appearances and more interviews.

Bucky’s been awake for over an hour anyway, staring at the ceiling and listening to Steve’s deep, steady, breathing.

Steve groans when the alarm wakes him, hiding his face against Bucky’s neck and tightening his arm around Bucky’s ribs. “There’s no fucking way it’s already fucking morning.”

Any other day, Bucky would laugh at Steve’s typical morning crankiness. Today, he just keeps on staring at the ceiling. He lets the alarm keep on ringing, knowing from experience that if Bucky turns it off, Steve will fall back to sleep immediately.

Steve does some more grumbling and groaning while Bucky just lies there beneath him, until the screech of the alarm is too much. Cursing under his breath, he sits up and pokes at his phone on the bedside table until it goes quiet.

“Hey,” Steve whispers when he settles back down next to Bucky.

“Hey.” Bucky turns to face him, strokes his cheek with his thumb, and kisses his nose.

“Big day.” Steve pushing Bucky’s hair off his forehead.

“Big day.”

“I’m ready, though, Buck. I mean it. We’ve been practicing for this moment for weeks.”

Bucky frowns, trying to ignore the nausea churning away in his stomach. “I wish I could go with you.”

Steve cracks a smile and kisses his cheek.

“I mean it,” Bucky insists. Since they concocted this little coming out scheme, Bucky hasn’t liked that Steve’s gotta shoulder this burden on his own, but it wasn’t real until this morning. No one’s gonna be there with Steve, to watch his six as he subjects himself to interviews and book signings and the goddamn opinions of people that don’t even know him.

Steve nods and sighs. Bucky frowns when he sits up, crossing his legs under him. Steve opens and closes his mouth a couple times, as he figures out how to say whatever it is he’s got to say. Steve keeps struggling, so Bucky sits up too, mimicking his position until they are seated facing each other with their knees pressed together.

When Steve reaches out, resting his palm face up on Bucky’s calf, Bucky laces their fingers together.

“I know today ain’t gonna be easy,” Steve says.

Bucky studies his face intently. He looks serious, but not Captain America serious, not about-to-march-into-enemy-territory-without-backup serious.

“There’s probably going to be a lot of not-easy days, coming up,” Steve continues. “But you know what I’m gonna think of? When people ask me horrible questions or start talking about how I should give up the shield or whatever bullshit thing?”

Bucky shakes his head and squeezes Steve’s hand.

“I’m gonna think of those kids downstairs.”

That actually makes Bucky smile, because those kids downstairs sure are something. They were so goddamn overjoyed last night after the interview. They showered Steve with congratulations and baked him a cake and their joy was contagious.

“I’m gonna think of Rebecca and this beautiful, heartbreaking book she wrote,” Steve continues. “And I’m gonna think of Rachel, coming out years ago and how every move she’s made since has been to help and support people like us. I’m gonna think of you, back in 1939, telling me that you don’t like girls even though you hated that about yourself back then, and how much happier you were afterwards.”

Bucky nods along with Steve, his stomach settling and some of the tension easing from his shoulders.

“I’m gonna think about you waiting for me to come home tonight and how fucking relieved I am, that I don’t have to hide this part of myself anymore.” Steve leans forward, rests his forehead against Bucky’s, and runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair. “Okay, Buck?”

“Okay,” Bucky whispers.

Steve nods and then gets out of bed. Bucky watches him retreat into the bathroom, mulling over everything Steve just said.

Maybe if he could’ve gotten his shit together enough to turn himself in to the authorities and access all that gaping red space between 1945 and 2014, he could’ve earned his freedom and stood by Steve though all this, but it’s too late for that. They’re out and Steve’s going to face it on his own. Bucky believes Steve when he says he can handle it, but he still doesn’t fucking like it.

Bucky wants to leave the apartment. It’s a strange sensation, after months of forcing himself to leave home only because he feels like it’s good for him. This morning he actually wants to follow Steve out the front door, even though he knows he absolutely could not handle what Steve about to face.

Maybe he’ll try to leave the apartment every other day, once things calm down a little.

He follows Steve to the bathroom. He sits on the closed lid of the toilet and watches Steve shower. Steve wraps a towel around his waist when he’s done, pauses to run his fingers through Bucky’s hair and press a kiss into his temple, and then moves to brush his teeth.

It’s _hours_ before Bucky usually brushes his teeth, so he just sticks close to Steve’s side and they look at each other in the mirror.

With that done, Bucky follows Steve into the closet. He leans against the doorframe like he does every morning when Steve’s gotta leave. This time Steve pulls on a navy sweater; Bucky doesn’t remember who it originally belonged to. Their wardrobes have merged.

In the kitchen, Bucky makes sure Steve gets coffee. He cooks him a five egg omelet with bacon on the side. It’s going to be a long day and Steve needs the protein. Steve, luckily, does not try to get Bucky to eat so early. It’s gonna be hard enough to eat at all today, the way he’s already fretting over Steve, without fucking with his routine.

Steve pulls on his brown leather jacket when it’s time to leave and Bucky sneaks Clif Bars into his pockets, in case whatever PR person they have handling Steve through the day forgets to feed him enough.

“Thanks, Buck,” Steve murmurs as Bucky walks him to the door, his hand on the small of Steve’s back. He wishes he could keep it there all day.

“You got your phone?” Bucky asks as he looks at their feet. Steve’s in sneakers, stupid, flimsy things that probably wouldn’t last through one little skirmish. Bucky’s ordering Steve another pair of boots the next time he allows himself to use the internet. After all the hullaballoo dies down.

Steve fishes his cell out of his back pocket, lets Bucky to check to make sure it’s got a full charge, and then puts it in his pocket with all the Clif Bars.

“I’m gonna carry around Rachel’s phone all day,” Bucky says. “You call anytime. When you need a break or if things get bad or if you just wanna hear my angelic fucking voice.”

Steve smiles. He wraps Bucky in a hug like Bucky’s the one that needs comforting even though it’s Steve that’s about to step into the lion’s den without anyone there to watch his six.  

“I will,” Steve says. “Promise. Try not to worry too much.”

Bucky huffs and makes no such promise.

When Steve pulls back a few seconds later, he ducks his head to kiss Bucky’s cheek, just like he always does when he’s saying goodbye. Just like he did all those weeks ago, when he was setting off to tell all his superhero buddies his plan and Bucky couldn’t stop staring at his mouth, wondering what he tasted like.

Bucky turns his head at the last moment, making sure Steve catches his lips instead of his cheek. Without thinking it through at all, Bucky kisses Steve.

Heart racing, ears ringing, he puts too much force into it and ends up just sorta inelegantly mashing their mouths together. Steve makes an alarmed little sound, deep in his throat, and for moment Bucky thinks kissing must be highly overrated, that the shiver of his skin and his many memories kissing Steve are all lying to him.

He coulda sworn kissing Steve was something he enjoyed, a thousand years ago.

But Steve is gentle, just brushing a kiss over Bucky’s lips like he’d do to Bucky’s cheek, and that’s nice. Bucky breathes against his mouth and tries again, gentle like Steve is, tender like Steve makes him feel, and, _oh_.

Bucky gets it.

He takes another breath, reveling in the anticipation for a moment. Steve’s breathing is ragged, his skin hot beneath Bucky’s palms, and Bucky exhales before kissing him again.

Steve’s mouth is lush and soft and Bucky’s mind swims with it, kissing him and kissing him. The world around them tilts, like it’s finding its axis again after just being a degree off for too long. Something slots back into place in Bucky’s chest, too, a small correction, nothing he would’ve even noticed being off, until he kissed Steve again and some missing fragment of the person he used to be returned. He’s more James Buchanan Barnes right now, with his mouth soft against Steve Rogers, than he has been in seventy years.

He opens his mouth, like muscle memory instead of an actual decision to kiss Steve more thoroughly, and Steve whimpers, swaying against Bucky and getting his arms around Bucky’s waist just to stay upright.

Bucky gets the taste of Steve back in his mouth, and a million memories make sense to him. Kissing Steve was worth every risk, worth losing his family and giving up on the life his mother always wanted for him and getting caught.

It’s worth whatever will happen now that the world knows Captain America is queer, too.

And as much as Bucky would like to spend the rest of his natural-born life kissing Steve Rogers, making him whimper and writhe and moan, it’s too much, too fast. His mind is rushing with reclaimed memories, flashes of kiss after kiss after kiss, and he’s dizzy with all the new memories he wants to add to them, now that he finally understands the appeal of getting close like this.

If he keeps it up, he’ll probably puke all over Steve’s shoes and completely ruin the moment.

He gives Steve one last little kiss on his lower lip and hugs him close, pressing his forehead to Steve’s cheek. They stand there for a minute, catching their breath and holding each other.

In his pocket, Steve’s phone starts chirping, letting them know that the car is waiting to take him into the city. Steve seems content to ignore it forever, but Bucky pulls away. They’ve got a tight schedule to keep today, after all.

“Whoa,” says Steve, looking a little pink and a little dazed. He stares at Bucky’s mouth, and Bucky blushes and has to look down at their shoes. “That was-- whoa.”

“Now I remember why I liked kissing you,” Bucky whispers.

Steve laughs, joyous and free, echoing off the walls of their home and reverberating. Bucky can’t even bring himself to shush him, to remind him not to wake Rachel. He pulls Bucky back in for another hug.

Steve’s phone chirps even louder. Groaning, Steve digs it out of his pocket, and silences the thing before brandishing it in Bucky’s face. “Really, Buck? This is the moment? Right now? When I gotta leave?”

Bucky blushes some more and shrugs. “One more thing to think about when it gets rough out there.”

“Fuck,” whispers Steve. “Do I love you.”

Steve kisses him again, gentle and quick.

“Be safe,” Bucky says.

“I’ll call you,” Steve says and then goes on his merry fucking way, closing the front door behind him with a soft click and leaving Bucky in the apartment.  

Bucky crawls back into bed and opens Beck’s laptop, watching the signal from the tracker Steve let him sew into his underwear as it crosses over the Brooklyn bridge.

* * *

**1939**

Bucky’s goddamn rules get way goddamn harder to follow once they finally settle into a apartment of their own, with steady jobs and everything.

When they were renting flops with paper thin walls and cockroaches scuttling over every surface or living on top of six other fellas in tiny rooms, it was easy as all get out to convince himself that Steve was his best pal, his brother, his family, and nothing else.

When Bucky was working more hours than he was sleeping, taking every odd job that came his way and standing in breadlines when all the money was going to Steve’s medical bills, he was too tired to do anything but watch Steve breathe and fall asleep knowing at least Steve was still alive and kicking.

When Steve nearly died the winter after they left home, Bucky didn’t sleep and he pleaded with God, promising to be good and to stick to his rules and to not touch Steve too excessively, so long as Steve didn’t die. And when Steve didn’t die, he was so grateful that ignoring the tug in his gut when Steve blushed, the clench of his chest when Steve smiled, seemed like a breeze.

But now they have privacy. And privacy means temptation.

Now Bucky’s got a job clerking at the sugar refinery - a dream job, as far as Bucky’s concerned, with easy work and regular hours and a steady paycheck - and Steve’s bringing in WPA money, plus sign painting and the occasional commission on the side. And steady work means Bucky’s not exhausted and worrying himself over Steve’s health every goddamn minute.

It leaves him far too much time to fantasize about locking their front door and pulling Steve into the bedroom and locking that door too, for good measure. If he learned anything from his parents catching him, it's that locked doors are important and he that can’t ever touch Steve the way he wants to again.

Usually he manages to stop that kinda thinking before he gets too wrapped up imagining Steve naked in too great of detail, but it’s so fucking hard to just sit still with a pulp at the end of a day, Steve’s feet in his lap as he works on a sketch.

It takes him triple the time it used to, getting through a book. He reads passages over and over until he can remember the words on the page instead of focusing on Steve’s soft skin and knobby ankles.

Bucky works every goddamn day to stick to his rules, to keep from touching Steve, but the deep satisfaction he gets from seeing Steve, healthy and safe in a home that Bucky’s managed to make for them, is something he won’t fight.

Their apartment’s his new favorite place in the world, even better than his room at his parents’ house or the garage at the company warehouse or that little grove of trees in Prospect Park where they spend the afternoon reading or drawing on those rare nice days they both have off. Their place is just a long, narrow space with windows on one end and a separate bedroom on the other.

They moved in a couple of weeks after Bucky landed the clerking job in ‘37. Bucky had set up the whole apartment to surprise Steve while he was painting the butcher’s windows. Beck got together all the stuff they’d left behind at his parents’ house and Uncle Tommy drove it over in a Barnes truck. The first time Steve set foot in the apartment, he’d marveled over his ma’s paintings on the walls, his easel set up by the window, and a living room fully furnished with a sofa and a chair and a coffee table and a radio, all pulled down from the attic by Winnie when she caught Beck carting off all of Steve and Bucky’s long abandoned belongings.

It might be harder to follow his careful rules, but it’s worth it to give Steve a real home, where he can sit at the board over the bathtub in the kitchen that serves as their table, complaining about a piece that just ain’t working as they eat dinner. Where he can leave his shoes in the doorway for Bucky to trip over when he gets home from work.

There’s one downside to getting settled in their own place, as far as Bucky can tell. He no longer has exhaustion and poverty as excuses for why he can’t take out the girls Winnie introduces him to at church. Suddenly he’s got the time and the money to go dancing and to dinner on occasion.

The dancing’s pretty fucking great, but the awkward goodnight kisses after are decidedly _not_.

Once or twice, when he ends up with a particularly bold dame he meets on his own at a dance hall, instead of one his mother finds, he lets them grope him in a back alley. He tries to get into it but can’t quite ignore the nausea rolling in his gut long enough to actually go home with them.

It’s a fine situation, a delicate balance. He gets to come home to Steve. Winnie’s appeased by his efforts to take out church girls. Bucky gets to dance his little heart out.

He’s pretty well convinced himself that he’ll be able to go on forever, not touching Steve, and one day he’ll find a dame he’ll like enough and she’ll have a friend for Steve and they’ll marry the pair of them and maybe get apartments in the same building someday. He’ll have a family and Steve, too, and he’ll be welcomed back to his parents’ house, welcomed back to the company.

It’s all gonna turn out _fine_.

If only Steve would get wise to Bucky’s plans for their future and stop fucking tempting him.

But Steve is _Steve_ , so of course he’s gotta go and drunkenly confess that when he’s not at home or at the art center, he spends the majority of his time at a goddamn queer bar of all places.

Steve says, “ _It's a queer bar, alright? They're all queer_ ,” and Bucky’s rules become impossible. Its pretty fucking obvious that Steve hasn’t spent the last few years living by the same rules as Bucky. He hasn’t spent countless nights forcing himself to forget what it was like to share a bed. He hasn’t been planning a normal future and ignoring the lingering looks they always seem to be exchanging.

Bucky’s been pushing this part of himself down, down, down, been willing himself to forget since leaving his parents’ house. He’s been desperately trying to stomp out the part of him that watches men walk by on the street instead of girls and forcing himself to extinguish any thought the moment it gets a little bit queer. He’s been fighting everyday to kill these urges and Steve’s just been fucking leaning into it.

And it ain’t _fair_.

Steve doesn’t bring up his precious queer bar in the morning when he’s sober. And Bucky’s sure as shit not gonna mention it, not when he’s holding back all his desire for Steve with a whip and a goddamn prayer.

When Steve stays out late, Bucky absolutely does not fucking think about Steve smiling at other men, Steve accepting drinks from other men, Steve blushing so pretty when other men flirt with him.

Bucky goes on every date his ma suggests and it’s _fine_. It’s normal. Bucky’s just your average red blooded American fella, taking out dames and hanging out with his best friend and absolutely not hung up on anything remotely queer.

It’s exactly the same as it was before Steve said, _“It’s a queer bar,”_ and _“I know it was just messing around to you, not anything other than that. But for me... well,”_ and “ _But not just girls, okay?"_

Bucky’s rules just get a whole lot harder to follow, but it’s all going according to plan, until Rachel fucking Rosenbaum strolls into their lives.

* * *

The thing about Zelda Corrigan is that she doesn’t take Bucky too seriously. Coaxing a laugh outta her is hard work, and Bucky gets the feeling that she’s laughing at him rather than with him more often than not. She’s not so easily charmed by his easy grin, rolls her eyes when he drops his voice and flirts. Usually, that gets dames blushing and tittering but Zelda just shakes her head and smiles indulgently, like there’s some joke here Bucky’s not getting.

She’s new to the city, moved from Jersey to take care of her elderly aunt and work at Brooklyn Hospital as a nurse, just like Sarah Rogers. (She looks deeply unimpressed when Bucky benevolently forgives her for being from New fucking Jersey). Her aunt drags her to Mass on Sundays when she’s not at the hospital, but Bucky gets the feeling that she doesn’t want to be there any more than Bucky does. After the service, she seems more interested in Beck going on about some book than she is in Bucky. It seems like a good sign.

The second time Bucky takes her out, she talks about her favorite artists, getting all emotional about color and brushstrokes and composition, stuff that Bucky’s never understood. The look on Zelda’s face when she talks about impressionist paintings at the Met is the same gooey, mushy one Steve gets when he’s going on and on about art. When Bucky talks about his best pal, Steve the artist, Zelda seems genuinely interested in meeting him.

And Bucky’s got hope for this one. She’s smart and beautiful. His mother approves. She’s dedicated to her job and Beck likes her. She might have enough in common with Steve to not only tolerate his presence, but enjoy it.

With a couple of drinks in them, they go dancing. Zelda seems content to spend all their time on the dance floor, and Bucky thought the high slit in her skirt was just for showing off her gams, but it’s a practical fashion choice, letting her really kick up her legs as he swings her around.

At the end of the night he walks her home and she laughs at him some more as he gushes about her dancing. She shakes her head and says, “You keep up okay. Guess you can take me out again, so long as there’s dancing involved.”

When they get to her front steps, lingering in front of her aunt’s house, Bucky’s heart sinks. This is his least favorite part. Bucky likes taking out dames just fine, so long as there’s good conversation and dancing, but most of them expect a goodnight kiss or maybe more.

He’s had a nearly perfect night with Zelda, and he doesn’t want it ruined by an awkward kiss and that churning sickness that always plagues him at such moments, when it gets a lot harder to pretend that he’s normal. It’s so easy to charm a dame and show them a good time out in public that Bucky can almost believe he wants them like your average fella, but it all unravels at the goodnight kiss.

Bucky swallows, hides his hands in his pockets, and braces himself for the way Zelda will step close and look at his mouth and tell him she had a great time.

“Well.” Zelda stands on the bottom step, the wood creaking beneath her shoes. It makes her tall enough to look him right in the eye and Bucky holds his breath. “I had a great time.”

“Yeah, me too,” Bucky says, trying to smile because he means that. He _did_ have a great time, despite how much he’s dreading the part that comes next.

Zelda smiles and pats him once on the shoulder, but instead of leaning closer she just goes on up to the second step, and then the third, getting farther and farther away.

Bucky blinks up at her from the sidewalk.

“I’ll see you at Mass on Sunday, I’m sure,” she says once she’s up on the front porch. “Maybe we’ll plan something then?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, gaping at her. “Sure, that’ll work.”

“Night, Bucky,” she says, turning towards the door.

“Night, Zelda.”

Bucky stares at her closed front door for a few minutes after she disappears through it. His shock melts off, leaving him relieved and down right giddy. He catches a trolly home, grinning to himself the whole way. With Zelda he could have it all, a wife his parents approve of and a friend to take out dancing who’s not overly interested in touching him unless it’s to lindy. Someone who will accept Steve’s presence in his life.

He’s so goddamn hopeful that he manages to talk Steve into a double date.

Unfortunately, his good mood sours the second Steve says he’ll get a date of his own, that he’s got someone special in mind who’s sure to say yes.

Someone he didn’t bother mentioning to Bucky at all.

* * *

Rachel Rosenbaum might be the most beautiful dame Bucky's ever seen. And Bucky's taken out some real lookers.

She's not the type Bucky usually goes for - not that he's ever found a woman he actually goes for - but she sure as hell is the exact kind of gal that never fails to turn Steve’s head when they're out and about. She's got big brown eyes and plump red lips, perfectly lush dark hair and a nose just crooked enough to make her face interesting. When she laughs, she does it with her whole body, shoulders shaking, eyes squeezed tightly closed, hands clapping.

She's outgoing and sharp and, worst of all, she seems to really know Steve, in that deep, personal way that very few people have bothered. Before it was just Bucky and Beck and maybe the rest of Bucky’s family, who knew Steve so thoroughly.

But Rachel fucking Rosenbaum talks to Steve like she knows everything about him.

And she very obviously adores him for it.

It’s nothing like any double date they’ve ever been on. Usually, Steve’s awkward and shy, unable to string more than two sentences together when he talks to a pretty dame. Usually, Bucky does most of the conversing, flirting with his date and talking Steve up.

This time, Bucky’s so shocked by the sheer level of familiarity between Steve and the most beautiful dame he’s ever seen - a gal that Bucky didn’t even know existed until a handful of days ago - that it’s Bucky who can’t manage to string together more than two coherent sentences.

Everyone has a grand old time, anyhow. Rachel and Zelda get on like a house on fire, and Steve finds a captive audience for art talk in Zelda. Bucky drinks too much.

This is the ideal situation, the one he’s been half heartedly working towards since they moved into the apartment. He’s always told himself that the end goal was to find them wives, a pair of dames who both can appreciate Steve.

But this is the closest Bucky’s ever got to that foggy, unclear future. And he’s always known it’s what they’d have to do eventually - get married, be normal - but he always assumed they’d have more time, is all.

His ma is gonna be so goddamn happy. Bucky might not ever be really happy again.

But Rachel Rosenbaum is just the kind of girl Steve deserves. Beautiful and witty and the life of the party. If Steve gets his head out of his ass and actually marries her, actually lets her make him happy, then that could be enough for Bucky.

He can live off Steve’s happiness, even if it’s someone else making him laugh and taking care of him when he’s sick and building a home with him.

Of course the future Bucky spends the majority of the night imagining up for them gets tanked rather effectively the moment they get home. Steve, huffy and irritated, announces, "She was trying to make you jealous. Jealous over me, I mean," and then a moment later, "She’s not nutty. Although she is pretty queer.”

Bucky didn’t think he could be more shocked then he was before dinner, when Rachel appeared on the street, swaying her hips and wrapping every luscious, leggy, smirking inch of herself around Steve as she introduced herself to Bucky as Steve’s date.

But Steve’s announcement does it.

He’s so shocked he doesn’t manage a wink of sleep. He lays on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, and thinking about queer Rachel Rosenbaum and how fucking sad Steve looked when he finally said, “ _I’m hung up on you_ ,” and then, “ _I’m gone on you_.”

Somehow, pretending this thing with Steve didn’t exist was all fine and dandy when it was only making Bucky miserable. But Steve was just so _fucking sad._ All these years that Bucky’s been careful to keep his distance, and it’s made them both so fucking sad.

So really it’s all Rachel fucking Rosenbaum’s fault, when Bucky’s resolve finally crumbles and he crawls into bed with Steve in the morning, breaking every goddamn rule he’s been depending on since leaving his parents house.

He kisses Steve and feels like he could go right on kissing Steve forever, even if he knows it can’t last.

* * *

Nothing much changes, on the surface of it. Bucky gets up early to go to work and Steve putters around the apartment in the mornings, frowning over whatever’s on his easel and tugging out his frustration on his hair and muttering until he gets it right.

When Bucky gets home, Steve’s out and about, sketching commissions at the bar or hanging around the art center. Bucky makes dinner. Steve’s home in time to eat it. They talk about their days and laugh and give each other a hard time.

The evenings pass, sprawled out on the sofa with Steve’s feet in Bucky’s lap, listening to the radio, Bucky with a book and Steve drawing.

It’s the same regular stuff they’ve been doing their whole lives, the same routine they settled into since moving into the apartment, but in between all that Bucky gets to touch Steve freely, at will, whenever he wants.

Nothing much changes, but Bucky’s so goddamn happy it feels like he’s a whole new person, living a whole new life.

He was never great at following those careful rules to keep it friendly with Steve, especially the one that said _don’t touch him not ever._ Before, he was always ruffling Steve’s hair and play wrestling him and squeezing his shoulder. Now, he presses his lips to Steve’s forehead when he gets his hands in Steve’s hair, and their mock scuffles end with Steve laid out under him on the sofa, where they kiss for so long sometimes Bucky gets dinner on hours later then he intended.

Suddenly, Bucky gets to kiss Steve hello and goodbye, and those years Bucky spent denying both of them this seem like a distant memory. The person who made up those rules was someone else. He didn’t realize how goddamn exhausting it was, until he finally stopped fighting.

Still, Bucky knows it’s selfish. They’re just delaying the inevitable here. It won’t last. Someday he’s gonna need a wife and kids. He’s gonna need to go back to his family and run the trucking company, but he’s so fucking greedy for every bit of Steve’s attention, now that he has it.

This compulsive need to fit an entire lifetime of happiness into the short time he has with Steve - weeks, months, maybe years if they get really lucky - has Bucky up and out of bed before 8 in the am on a Saturday, just to see Steve a few minutes sooner. He left to paint the butcher shop windows before the sun was even up, and he’ll be done and home shortly, but Bucky sees no reason not to walk with him, despite the early hour.

The morning’s nice, bright and breezy, so Bucky loiters on the sidewalk while Steve finishes up. He smokes a cigarette and makes goofy faces at Steve through the glass, grinning widely when Steve’s got to bite his lip to keep from laughing like an idiot in front of Mr. Boyd’s customers.

“Well, if it ain’t Bucky Barnes. Up to no good, I’m sure. Shoulda known you’d be nearby, with Steve in there painting.”

Bucky turns on his heel to see Dot Henderson push out of the shop’s doors, her baby on her hip and a tote bag slung over her shoulder. The little guy’s big enough to hold his head up on his own, but Bucky didn’t even know Dot was expecting. That’s the kind of thing his mother would’ve told him, if he still saw her enough to gossip about Bucky’s old sweethearts.

“Aw, you know me, Dot,” Bucky replies, grinning. “No trouble here.”

Dot laughs and smirks at him, pausing to chat on the sidewalk. Bucky flirts with her, even though she’s got a baby on her hip and a husband in the navy. It’s a habit, more than anything, and Dot flirts right back because she knows it’s harmless. They went steady for most of the summer Bucky was sixteen, and he never tried to get under her skirt. Not once.

The way she looks at him now, indulgent and a little amused, makes him think she knows about him, knows what he likes and more importantly, what he doesn’t. The thought has his stomach dropping, but he keeps a smile plastered to his face. All those reasons Bucky never tried to get up her skirt are just too shameful to contemplate, so he lays it on extra thick.

Steve emerges just as Dot is glancing down at her watch and hollering over how late she is for breakfast with her mother-in-law. Dot squeezes Bucky’s forearm and gives him a little smile as she says goodbye. She waves to Steve, apologizing that she can’t stay and gab, as she rounds the corner.

“Hiya, Stevie,” Bucky says, grinning wide. If they were home, he’d kiss Steve long and hard, but just seeing him out here in the sunshine, a few splatters of pink paint high on his cheek, is enough. Bucky bounces on the balls of his feet, ready to drag Steve to the nearest deli for breakfast.

Steve frowns, glancing at the end of the block where Dot disappeared. He’s holding his mouth in a tight line, pressing his hand into his lower back and stretching. “She’s a married lady, Buck. Shouldn’t’ve messed it up when you still had a shot if you want to carry on with her like that.”

It’s pretty goddamn stupid, that Dot knows not to take Bucky seriously when Steve somehow doesn’t, so Bucky decides to ignore his surly mood and the nonsense coming out of his mouth.

“Did you see the size of her kid?” Bucky asks. “He’s huge! A year old, she said. Did you even know she was gonna have a kid?”

“Beck told me.”

“No one tells me anything.”

“You here just to charm the married customers or was there something else you needed, _James_?” Steve asks.

Bucky smiles wider to keep from wincing. Steve’s throwing out his first name, never a good sign.

“Aw, you’re cranky,” Bucky says, reaching for him. “C’mere.”

Steve really must be hurting, because he barely puts up a fight when Bucky grabs his heavy bag, stuffed will of paint supplies and notebooks and whatever bit of meat the Boyds always give him. Bucky gets an arm around his shoulders, and Steve sighs, leaning against him a little.

Maybe home is a better idea than the deli, where Bucky can make up a hot water bottle and Steve can contort himself into whatever position he wants on the sofa to make his back a little more comfortable.

Bucky sets off in the direction of the apartment, but Steve digs his heels in, shaking his head.

“What?” Bucky says, half expecting him to throw a delayed fit about Bucky carrying his bag.

“I’ve got an art class in an hour.” Steve frowns up at Bucky, like this is something Bucky should know.

“You’re taking a class? On a Saturday?”

Steve huffs, rolls his eyes, and reaches up to push his bangs out of his face. “No, I’m teaching. I told you last night, they have me subbing for a figure drawing class and a couple others this afternoon. Were you not listening?”

Bucky squints, trying to remember any conversations they might’ve had after dinner. But before the dishes were even done, Bucky got his mouth on Steve, kissing his cheek and then his neck and then everywhere else. He vaguely recalls Steve babbling about something when Bucky had his earlobe between his teeth, but Bucky doesn’t remember a single word.

“Sure,” he says.

Steve cracks a smile. “You don’t remember _shit_ . You were _distracted_.”

“Oh yeah?” Bucky smirks and pulls Steve into his side, hooking an arm around his neck. “Whose fault is that?”

Steve’s ears turn pink and he smiles down at his shoes.

“When’re you done?” Bucky asks, letting go of his fantasy of getting a meal in Steve and then spending the rest of day in bed.

“Last class ends at seven.”

“Seven! At night! You’re gonna be there all day?”

“Well, I’m filling in on three classes. In between I’m just gonna work on my WPA piece there.”

“That’s annoyingly reasonable.”

“It’s good money and I’m sure you’ll manage keep yourself entertained for one day,” Steve says tugging on Bucky’s hip until they’re both turned around and walking towards the trolley, away from home. “You used to do it all the time before we started this up again a month ago, remember?”

“Eh,” Bucky says, shrugging.

Steve laughs and pats Bucky on the back, before slipping out from under Bucky’s arm and putting space between them. “Wanna meet me at the bar after?”

“Sure.”

“You could go in a little early,” Steve suggests.

“Without you?” Bucky frowns at him and nearly plows into a couple of kids, chasing each other down the sidewalk and shrieking. “Why would I do a thing like that?”

Steve sighs. “You don’t have to be with me to go in if you want. It’s a good place to hang out, you might want to get to know everyone on your own.”

Bucky remains deeply skeptical. Hanging out in a queer bar is alright when it’s with Steve, but the thought of going in on his own makes him shaky, has his palms sweating. Bucky can’t quite figure out why going to the same place without Steve seems so daunting but it is absolutely not something he wants to do.

It’s kinda like the way he can easily admit that he loves Steve and wants him in every imaginable way, but the other part of that, the part where he can’t look at a girl and want them how he’s supposed to, like Steve can, is just too much.

Somehow, if he could, he’d tell Dot Henderson all about Steve and how much he loves him, but he’d never, not in a thousand years, admit the full extent of his queerness. He can barely admit it to himself.

“Rachel’ll be there,” Steve says. “I mean, there won’t be any married women with babies for you to flirt with, so it might not be the best time for you.”

Bucky sighs as they turn a corner, taking a shortcut through an alley where Steve got whomped on twice in as many weeks, right before his ma died. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous, sweetheart. It’s just Dot.”

“It’s not that.” Steve pulls Bucky to a stop by some foul-smelling trash cans, glancing around to make sure they’re on their own. “You don’t have to do that anymore, Buck. You don’t have to pretend.”

Bucky frowns at Steve. He’s got his serious face on, with his eyes hard and his jaw clenched, and there is no way Steve will be letting Bucky out of this conversation.

“It ain’t pretending,” Bucky murmurs.

Steve gets a little softer then, stepping close and resting a hand on Bucky’s chest. Now he looks all sympathetic, verging on pitying, even, like Bucky lives this sad life where he goes around pretending to flirt with girls and it makes him miserable.

“It’s okay that you don’t like girls,” Steve whispers. This conversation would be pretty fucking unbearable in their own apartment, and out here in this alley, permanently stained by Steve’s blood, it’s downright horrible.

Bucky forces a smile and a laugh, like Steve’s telling some hilarious joke. “I never said that. You like girls and you like me, too.”

“Sure, but that’s me.”

“Well, who says I’m not just like you?”

Steve purses his lips, raises an eyebrow, but for once in his stubborn little life, he doesn’t push. He nods and takes a step back, setting off towards the trolley again. “Okay, Buck. Whatever you say.”

“I’ll meet you there tonight,” Bucky says, just for something to say. “At the bar, after you’re done teaching, I’ll meet you.”

Steve nods and they say goodbye when he gets on the trolley. Bucky wishes he could give him the kind of goodbyes they share in the apartment, with a kiss and a murmured, _Love you._

That’s the easy part, after all. Just loving Steve. It’s the rest that’s just so goddamn _hard_.

* * *

He goes to the gym to hit the heavy bag. Uncle Tommy’s there, giving him a hard time for avoiding the Tuesday session, with Bucky’s uncles and father. Bucky wouldn’t have even come in today, if he knew he’d have to put up with Tommy’s nagging. He tries to get Bucky to commit to coming in next Tuesday, but there’s no way in hell Bucky’s going to go anywhere his father’s sure to be.

He does the grocery shopping for the week and gets through a bit of laundry. He reads for awhile and tinkers with the radio until the signal comes in clearer.

He tries to stay busy, but he can’t stop thinking about it, the huge gulf between how easy it is to love Steve and how hard it is to just admit this thing about who he is. Deep down, he’s known since he was a kid, but he never thought he’d admit it, even in the privacy of his own head.

Steve told him he doesn’t have to pretend anymore, but he’s got it halfway wrong. Flirting with Dot ain’t pretending. That’s just a bit of harmless fun. It’s the possibility that it would ever go anywhere, with her or any dame, that’s a lie.

Somehow, after a couple hours stuck in his own head driving himself crazy, he ends up outside Sully’s. He walks up and down the block, passing the entrance three times before he finally takes a deep breath and goes inside.

Rachel’s behind the bar and she glances up from where she’s idly sketching when she hears the door. It’s early enough that the bar’s still pretty empty, just a couple of geezers playing cards in the back, so he’s got all Rachel’s attention as he slowly approaches the bar.

“Hey there, James Buchanan,” she says, standing up straight. She looks behind him, like she’s fully expecting Steve to follow, but she doesn’t mention how strange it is to see Bucky on his own when Steve doesn’t magically appear. “It’s good to see you in here.”

“Yeah.” Bucky stands there, a couple feet from the stools. He doesn’t move to take of his jacket and considers just turning around and never coming back.

Rachel frowns at him, studying his face. He wonders if his distress is apparent in his expression, his panic and fear clear in his gaze and the way he’s biting the side of his cheek.

“Whiskey,” Rachel decides. “Let’s get you a whiskey.”

And that’s exactly what he needs in this moment, so he slips out of his jacket and perches on a stool, waiting for Rachel to pour him a drink.

* * *

He’s pretty sure that Rachel’s not supposed to be drinking while she’s working, but she finishes her third drink along with Bucky, keeping pace with him.

“When’d you figure it out?” Bucky immediately wishes he could take it back, that they could go back to easy topics like how great Steve is or weird Jewish shit.

Again, he considers just taking off and never coming back to this place. Maybe he’ll make it back in with Steve, when he can keep on pretending his presence in a queer bar is all about their relationship and has nothing to do with who Bucky is as a person. When it has nothing to do with who Bucky’s always been.

“Ah,” says Rachel. Her easy smile keeps him in his seat. She refills his glass and then her own. “That’s tricky.”

Bucky nods, glad it’s not just tricky for him.

“I just kinda always knew.” Rachel’s thoughtful, swirling her whiskey in her glass but not drinking. “I just didn’t have the words to define it until I got older, you know?”

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs. “Yeah, I know.”

Oh boy does he know.

“The whole world just constantly tells you you’re supposed to be one way,” Rachel says. There’s color high on her cheeks from the alcohol. She’s waving her hands around as she speaks, the whiskey in her glass sloshing. “If you’re a girl you’re gonna want a husband, want this grand romance at the most, or some dependable fella to take care of you at the least. And if you’re a boy you’re gonna want to go chasing skirts from the very moment you can walk.”

Bucky snorts into his drink and says, “Yeah.”

“But I always, always knew,” Rachel says, sighing. “That wasn’t me. No, _sir_.”

“No, sir,” Bucky echoes.

“I probably should’ve kept my mouth shut about it more, though,” Rachel says, frowning.

“I kept my mouth shut about it,” Bucky says. “My ma’s been talking about my future wife and kids since I was about seven years old. Or at least that’s the first time I can remember. I wanted to throw up thinking about it, but I didn’t know why, not till I was older. But I kept my mouth shut about it.”

“But you _knew_.”

“Sure,” Bucky agrees. With the buzz of alcohol taking away the typical panic that accompanies these thoughts, and Rachel nodding and understanding on the other side of the bar, it’s somehow easy to admit, out loud, that he’s queer. Maybe tomorrow, sober and back out in the real world, away from the safe little bubble of the bar, it will get impossible again. “I’d never admit it, not even to myself or Steve. But, sure. I’ve always known.”

“Not yourself?” Rachel whispers.

“Well, since I was about fourteen, I just pretended it was all about Steve. Outside of Steve, I could like dames. I could be normal. It was easy to admit about Steve, because he’s just so…” Bucky snaps his fingers, searching for the right word and coming up with nothing.

“Just so _Steve_?” Rachel supplies, grinning.

“Yes!” Bucky says, raising his glass to her. “He’s just so _Steve_. Who could resist that beautiful, stubborn idiot? He’s so good and brave and determined. Who could not love him?”

Rachel laughs, raising her own glass and toasting to loving Steve.

“But it’s not just Steve,” Bucky whispers.

“No,” Rachel replies. “You always knew. Like me.”

“Yeah.”

“And you kept your mouth shut. Even to yourself.”

“Yeah.”

Rachel looks unbearably sad for a moment. Her lip quivers as she stares down at the bartop, her gaze unfocused. She runs a manicured finger around the rim of her glass. After a few seconds she’s back to beaming again, glancing up at Bucky from beneath her eyelashes, smug and conspiratorial. “But you’re here now.”

Bucky lets out a big breath, so fucking relieved all of a sudden. Lying to yourself and everyone around you for decades is an exhausting venture, it turns out. Bucky repeats the words in his head. _You’re here now. You’re in a queer bar because you’re queer._

“Yeah,” Bucky says, giggling. That sound ain’t particularly manly, and he’d be embarrassed anywhere else, but there’s a couple fairies camping in the corner, sprawled out over the laps of three sailors. They can be themselves here and Bucky can giggle all he fucking wants. “Yeah, I’m here now.”

Rachel lifts her glass again and says, “Mazel tov.”

She tells him about her bubbe then, tells him about being eight years old and convinced that she’d have a wife one day. Tells him that her bubbe tried to explain that it wasn’t allowed but when Rachel was steadfast in her conviction that she’s never have a husband, she didn’t try to talk Rachel out of it. She tells him stories about the bar and its patrons, good stories, happy stories.

By the time Steve turns up a couple hours later, delighted to find Bucky and Rachel drunk in a booth, Bucky thinks it might be okay. He’s never gonna want a dame like he’s supposed to, but that’s okay. Admitting it is better.

“Hey,” he whispers, sliding close to Steve, wrapping an arm around his waist.

“Hey,” Steve replies, grinning and relaxed now that he’s got some booze in him, despite his long day.

“I gotta tell you something.”

“Shoot.”

Bucky gets a little distracted, nibbling on the soft bit of skin behind Steve’s ear and feeling him shiver.

“Hey,” Steve says, poking Bucky’s ribs with his elbow. “Hey.”

“Flirting with Dot is _fun_ ,” Bucky tries to explain. “It’s just, she smiles and blushes and it makes her happy. I like making her happy, and other dames, too. She knows it ain’t going anywhere, and so do I, but it’s not _pretending_. I dunno. I’m just charming or something.”

Steve laughs, and pats Bucky’s cheek. “Sure, honey. Sure you are.”

“But the other part.” Bucky sits up and tries to look Steve right in the eye, to prove he’s serious now. But Steve’s face blurs and it makes Bucky feel like the world is spinning around him, so he closes his eyes instead. “You’re right about the other part. I’m-- I don’t-- I’m not like you.”

Steve waits patiently, resting a hand on Bucky’s thigh and just staying close.

“I don’t like girls,” Bucky whispers. “Not like you do.”

Steve pulls Bucky close, until Bucky can tuck his face in against Steve’s neck and breathe him in. “Good, Buck. That’s so good. Ain’t nothing wrong with that.”

Bucky wonders if he’ll ever believe that. Maybe admitting it, just to himself and Steve and Rachel fucking Rosenbaum, is a good first step. He feels lighter just for saying it.

“There’s no wrong way to be queer,” Steve whispers into his hair. Bucky nods and sighs and wishes they were home so he could go to sleep.

“Don’t think this means that we won’t be finding wives someday,” Bucky mutters. “We ain’t getting out of that one so easy.”

Steve sighs and then sighs some more, but for once in his life he offers no argument.


	7. Chapter 7

Bucky stares at the overflowing shelves of the refrigerator and considers skipping breakfast. He hasn’t been hungry since Steve left 28 hours ago, but he’s managed to choke down a couple of meals under Rachel’s watchful gaze.

This morning, there’s no Rachel around to stare at him until he eats.

Although he did promise he’d have something for breakfast as Rachel was leaving for temple. Maybe just a grapefruit. That counts.

He’s moved on to staring inside some cabinets - more energy efficient than keeping the fridge open - when the intercom by the front door starts beeping. Bucky crouches low and almost ducks under the table to hide from whoever wants to be let upstairs, but then his panic subsides a little as he actually  _ listens _ .

It’s a very specific series of beeps - _ short sh-short short long short long _ \- used only by the people who know that the weird writer, Bob, rooming with Rachel Barnes and Captain America is actually the Winter Soldier. It’s the same code both Sam and Natasha have used to enter the apartment with greater frequency since Steve came out, but it can’t be either of them now. They’re both across the ocean with Steve.

That leaves one possibility.

Bucky sighs and briefly considers crawling back into bed, ignoring everything but the smell of Steve, still clinging to the pillows. Instead he closes the cabinets and moves to the front door.

“What,” he says to the intercom.

“Yo, yo, yo,” comes the reply. “Let me up.”

Bucky scowls at the intercom, but does as he’s told. Exactly 82 seconds later, there’s a knock on the door, the same pattern used on the intercom.  _ Short sh-short short long short long. _

When Bucky opens the door, he’s met with Clint Barton's lazy smile. He’s holding a brown paper bag on his hip, struggling to balance it and keep Lucky from leaping on Bucky at the same time.

Since the hullabaloo surrounding the book release settled slightly, Bucky’s been focusing on two goals: leaving the apartment, and spending time with people who are not Steve and Rachel. Clint’s the only new person he’s managed to include in his small group of acceptable people, since Sam and Natasha had somehow snuck their way onto that list when Steve came out. Bucky still antagonizes Sam and can’t look at Natasha, but he can handle their presence in his home for extended periods of time nowadays.

Although Bucky hasn’t managed to acknowledge Natasha in any meaningful way yet, they’ve had exactly one conversation, when she found him sneaking a cigarette on the balcony between dinner and dessert a couple weeks ago. Bucky’d been wearing his Bob mask, scratching at the edges, and Natasha rested her forearms on the railing, looking out over the city and not shivering against the cold like Bucky was. He hadn’t expected her to say anything, but she had always been one surprise after another.  _ “So,” _ she said. _ “I’ve got this friend, Clint. Steve probably mentioned him. He was super brainwashed, once. Like, a Norse god literally took over his mind for a couple of truly horrible days. I want to tell him about you, if you let me. I don’t like  _ not _ telling him things. And I think you’d like him.” _

So Clint Barton joined them for group dinners. And now it’s escalated to him showing up uninvited with his dog,  _ apparently _ .

“Steve’s only been gone a day,” Bucky says, making no move to stand aside and let Clint in. “I’m fine. And I already have a babysitter, you know.”

Clint snorts. “Your babysitter’s at temple and then she’s getting lunch with friends.”

“How the fuck do you now that? You were all conspiring about this? I’m  _ fine _ .” Bucky considers slamming the door in Clint Barton’s face, but his absolutely charming dog is nosing inside the apartment, sniffing Bucky’s socks. There’s got to be a way to get Clint to leave and Lucky to stay.

“There was no conspiring. Geez. Dramatic. Rachel mentioned to Nat who mentioned to me that you’d be on your own this morning.”

Bucky remains unimpressed. “ _ Conspiring _ .”

“I thought it’d be a good opportunity for some bro time.”

“More like babysitter time.”

“Would a babysitter bring you booze?” Clint shakes the bag on his hip. Its contents rattle. “You weren’t the only one left behind here, Barnes. Just let me in, will you?”

Curiosity sufficiently piqued and in need of some quality dog time, Bucky steps a side and opens the door, gesturing for Clint to enter with a dramatic wave of his whirring metal arm. Clint shuffles in like he owns the place, toeing off his sneakers and leaving them in the middle of the entryway where anyone could trip all over them. He lets Lucky off her leash and she licks Bucky’s chin when he bends down to place Clint’s smelly-ass shoes on the rack.

Bucky’s got no fucking clue why he tolerates this kind of behavior from Clint. If Sam or Natasha were anything less the perfect house guests, Bucky would not be so welcoming. Sam always does the dishes, since he never cooks, and Natasha always brings wine or dessert or both, while Clint usually whines when he’s served anything fancier than pizza. 

It’s just plain rude, but Clint can get away with just about anything, for some reason.

After Bucky gives Lucky a thorough ear scratching, he finds Clint in the kitchen. He’s already made a mess, the contents of his brown paper bag now covering the entirety of the kitchen table as he digs through the cabinets.

“Bloody Marys,” Clint says, as if that completely justifies the mess.

Bucky frowns at him, not liking the sound of anything remotely  _ bloody _ , especially not while Steve’s off on a mission, completely inaccessible for the first time since Bucky found his way back to Brooklyn.

“No worries there, sergeant,” Clint says, waggling a bottle of tomato juice in Bucky’s direction. “It’s just a cocktail.”

Despite the gruesome name, Bucky finds he quite likes Bloody Marys. Clint sticks so many garnishes in Bucky’s glass it’s gotta count as eating something. Bucky takes a bite of a pickle, content that he’s fulfilling his promise to Rachel.

“Pretty good, right?” Clint kicks his feet up, resting them on the coffee table. There are holes in his purple socks. 

Bucky’s in Beck’s rocking chair, staying as far from Clint’s seat as possible. There might be other people tromping all over his home these days, but he’s still wary of getting too close to anyone that did not know him in 1939.

Bucky nods, taking a deep drink. 

“Nat’s got very strict vodka rules. If you’re drinking the good stuff, you’ve got to do it straight. Right out of the freezer, definitely not on the rocks. If you’re mixing it with something, Svedka will do. Which isn’t even Russian but that’s what Nat says to get so I do what I’m told. Actually, my life is like 80% doing what she tells me and I end up breaking way fewer bones. And this is a pretty fucking good drink, right?”

Bucky nods. Clint Barton talks a lot but expects no response from Bucky. It’s nice.

He sips his drink and scratches Lucky’s ears some more while Clint chatters about the broken garbage disposal in his shithole apartment that he’s determined to have fixed by the time Natasha gets back. Then he goes on to describe his plans to spend the summer at his sister’s farm, helping out with her kids and the baby she’s got on the way. When Bucky finishes his drink, saving a final bite of bacon for last, Clint gets up to make another round without consulting Bucky.

“I didn’t get left behind,” Bucky says. With a second drink in hand, he’s finally ready to participate more actively in the conversation. “It’s not getting left behind if you choose not to go.”

Clint doesn’t seem confused at all, even though Bucky’s referring back to something Clint said an hour ago.

“Yeah,” he says, grimacing. “Me neither. But it still feels like getting left behind, you know?”

Bucky hums his agreement and eats another pickle.

He knew, from the moment Steve came home from his goddamn murder road trip, that he’d eventually go back to hurling himself at evil, taking up dangerous missions and saving the world. Whether it was getting back out on the road with Sam for Nazi hunting or tackling the more absurd and otherworldly threats with the Avengers, Bucky always knew he’d be left at home while Steve was in danger.

The book release gave him a longer reprieve than he originally expected. Everybody wanted a piece of Steve, his schedule packed full of interviews and appearances and book signings. The publisher wanted him to go on a cross country book tour, and Steve flat out refused to leave the east coast, but he was still running himself ragged with events.

It was rough, for a minute there. As predicted, there were outraged calls for Steve to give up the shield for a variety of bullshit and often contradictory reasons - he lied to the American public about his sexuality, as a superhero he shouldn’t be talking about his personal life at all, he’s a bad role model, he’s too distracted by his villainous boyfriend to protect the public. 

There was plenty of,  _ I don’t care if you're gay but I don’t need to know about it, just keep that in the bedroom _ , to which Steve replied,  _ I’m actually bi and have not once mentioned anything about my bedroom. Beck didn’t either in her book. She’s Bucky’s sister. That sure woulda been weird. _

For the most part, they’ve avoided the worst of it on the internet, and Steve’s sufficiently intimidating when you see the sheer girth of him up close and in person, so most people have managed to be somewhat respectful to his face.

The general public seems to think Steve lives in the city, at The Tower, and a few protests broke out on the street below over those first few weeks, the largest happening on the day Beck’s book was released. The couple dozen angry people with nasty signs that showed up after Steve’s first interview were quickly overtaken by huge crowds, showing their support. Tam had been involved in organizing the counter protest, somehow, with Rachel scolding them for skipping school and then offering advice on just who Tam should tweet at to get the word out.

Steve had been late getting home for dinner the night the book was released. He met his  supporters at the foot of The Tower, making some moving speech about the queer folks of New York being his family in 1939 and that still being true today. People kept giving him stuff, pictures and rainbow boas and letters. A couple of the most moving ones are still hanging on the fridge.

Bucky wishes he would’ve been there to see it. (And to watch the surrounding buildings for snipers as Steve moved through the crowd with Tam hanging out at his elbow to help hold all the stuff people were pushing into his arms.)

Missing that moment has inspired Bucky’s many trips outside since.

There’s a lot of negative out there, but also so much positive that Bucky can’t quite comprehend it. Outside the confines of Sully’s bar, every memory he’s got of people finding out he’s queer is a decidedly horrible one. The contrast to this is shocking.

They might spend the majority of the time scowling at each other when Sam comes over to the apartment, but Sam’s also has taken to emailing Bucky screenshots of support he finds on the internet. Bucky’s got a folder on the laptop now, full of all the selfies Steve took with various people at the base of Stark Tower. He’s got images of tweets where people talk about Captain America inspiring them or older people using Steve as a way to connect to their LGBT children.

There's been a series of  trending hashtags  - #queerinuniform, #vetsinlove, #wartimeromance, #allsfairinloveandwar - full of couples from every war since WWII, vets who got together under the most harrowing conditions. There’s a whole series of pictures of old men who have been together since they got home from Europe or the Pacific, in uniform or wearing ball caps declaring them WWII Vets, usually posted by their grandkids, and a bunch of WACs, too.

There’s posts from every kind of social media, lengthy personal stories that can get really fucking heartbreaking but are ultimately hopeful, and short, happy jokes that make Bucky laugh and smile in equal measure. There’s a particularly hilarious compilation video on YouTube that shows a series of conservative politicians bumbling their way through trying to support the troops and condemn Steve’s  _ lifestyle _ at the same time, and failing miserably.

Bucky avoids the internet for his own sanity, but he fucking adores every positive, joyous image Sam emails him. And he shows his gratitude by sending Sam links to the very best sloth videos the internet has to offer in return.

Of course, a month or so after the book was released, a whole slew of politicians and military types were arrested for their Hydra ties. That took the public’s focus off Steve being queer, slightly.

It was a nice reprieve for about ten goddamn seconds before the whole mess inspired Steve to jump right back into the superheroing, not giving himself even a week of peace after all the interview requests died down before agreeing to a mission.

Although Bucky does understand why Steve felt he had to go on this mission, of all missions. 

“You really chose not to go?” Bucky asks Clint. “On  _ this  _ mission?”

“Yeah.” Clint grimaces, fidgeting around in his seat. He tucks his feet up under him, his holely socks rubbing all over the couch. “I mean, I’m semi-retired anyway. Now that SHIELD’s donzo, I get to be choosy about this shit, you know? I don’t have some fancy superpowers like the rest of you people. My joints fucking hurt, man. I can’t hang like I used to.”

Although this makes perfect sense, it's pretty fucking apparent that all these excuses don’t actually have shit to do with Clint’s presence in the apartment instead of out with the rest of his team.

Bucky drinks more and waits him out.

“It’s a pretty flimsy lead, too,” Clint continues. “They can handle it without me. Especially with Thor and Banner back in town.”

Bucky nods and sips. Clint gets even twitchier.

“I just didn’t want to go, okay!” At Clint’s little outburst, Lucky abandons Bucky to rest her head on Clint’s thigh, nudging at his hand with her nose. He calms down slightly when he runs his fingers through her fur, and Bucky feels a little bad for pushing the conversation this way.

Only a little. Clint did show up unannounced after all, and that’s just plain rude.

“Okay,” Bucky says. “Me neither. Not that I could go, even if I wanted to. Not when half your Avengers still don’t know I’m here.”

“Yeah,” Clint says. “Yeah. But I bet you thought I’d be all over this particular mission, right?”

Bucky shrugs. “Thought it might be personal for you. They’re trying to find the fucking alien thing that took over your brain, right?”

“Right.” Clint sighs. “That goddamn scepter. Of course Hydra fucking absconded with it after the Battle for New York. I  _ hate  _ that thing. I don’t want to go anywhere near it.”

The image of a chair pops into Bucky’s head. He shivers, the alcohol curdling in his stomach as he whispers, “Yeah.”

“I kinda don’t even want to live on the same planet where that fucking thing exists, you know?” 

Bucky wonders how many chairs Steve destroyed on his Hydra slaughtering road trip. He wonders how many are left. “Yeah. I know.”

Clint grins at him, but it’s a hollow, fragile thing. “Of course you know. You fucking know. Brainwashed bros for life, am I right?”

Bucky actually cracks a smile. Like Sam is the only one unwilling to immediately forgive Bucky for trying to kill him, Clint is the only one who just  _ says  _ it. He says  _ brainwashed _ with a shudder but also a wry, self-deprecating edge because he’s been there. 

After dinner and before dessert a couple weeks ago, Clint caught him out on the balcony sneaking a cigarette. He said,  _ “I killed people. Sure, it wasn’t my choice but it was my hands, my bow. My brain that thought taking orders from a genocidal alien god was a super fucking good idea, for a couple days there. It’s fucked up, you know? I’m still kinda fucked up about it.” _

Now, Bucky’s about to open his mouth to agree to be Clint’s brainwashed bro for life, but Clint turns red and starts blabbering again.

“ _ Shit _ . Sorry, man. What happened to you was way, way fucking worse than what happened to me. Like, not even in the same category of bad. Obviously it was way worse. I got lucky. It was only a few days.”

“Eh,” Bucky replies shrugging. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy for you. There’s no reason to compare and contrast this shit. It’s not a goddamn competition.”

“Yeah?” Clint says. He’s handsome when he smiles like that. He’s got dimples and boyish charm. Bucky hadn’t noticed till now. “Brainwashed bros? For life?”

“Sure.”

Clint laughs and for a few minutes, they sip their drinks in easy silence. But Clint Barton is not great at silence - at least when he’s not huddled down in a bird’s nest, waiting and watching - so it's not long before he’s groaning and fidgeting again.

“What?” Bucky asks.

“It just fucking sucks that they’re out there somewhere, getting into who knows what shit.” Clint sighs and slinks to the floor, like he’s melting off the couch, his body moving like liquid. He ends up sitting with his knees pulled up to his chin. Lucky licks his cheeks and Clint leans into her. “And we’re just waiting around, hoping it goes well, totally fucking useless.”

“Yeah,” Bucky replies. Since Steve set off on this mission, Bucky’s constantly been pinging between the anxiety of not being there to protect Steve and the anxiety of imagining what it would actually be like to be there to protect Steve; the killing and the blood and the goddamn specter of the Winter Soldier hanging over him.

It’s been a thoroughly shitty 30 hours. If everything goes according to plan - and when does everything ever go according to plan - he’s got another 30 to go before Steve gets home.

“So,” Clint says, standing up and running his hands down his thighs. “You want to see how much of this handle we can get through before Rachel gets home and scolds us?”

Steve can’t get drunk with the serum. Bucky wonders if this applies to him, too.

“Yes,” he says.

* * *

Turns out, with enough determination, Bucky can get a nice little buzz going on. He’s perfectly willing to keep going towards full on drunk, even with Clint slurring his words, but Rachel comes home and puts a stop to the day drinking, informing him in no uncertain terms that the garnishes on a Bloody Mary do not actually count as breakfast.

She also comes bearing pastrami sandwiches, leftovers from her meal with her synagogue friends. Bucky eats four and takes a nap.

* * *

Steve texts the moment they hit US airspace. It’s just two hours later than Steve predicted as the absolute earliest they’d be back, and Bucky lets out a relieved groan, flopping back on the couch.

“Steve?” Rachel asks, wringing her hands.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, typing back a reply on Rachel’s phone. “He’s fine. Should be back here in a couple hours. He’s perfectly fine.”

Rachel lets out a relieved breath of her own and then a little giggle. “Maybe we should start this movie over again, huh?”

Bucky laughs too, because both of them were doing a piss-poor job of pretending that they were paying any sort of attention to the screen.

Steve keeps texting, when they land at The Tower, when he gets out of the shower, when he goes through medical. He texts throughout the debrief that lasts far too long for Steve’s (and Bucky’s) taste, and when he gets in the car to come home. Steve doesn’t take the train as much since coming out; he’s too worried that someone will follow him back to Rachel’s and tell the whole world that if they want to carry signs with nasty words on them and yell in the general direction of Steve’s home, then Brooklyn is the place to do it.

He keeps texting, a countdown to their reunion based on his location.

_ Getting on the bridge. _

_ Off the bridge. _

_ A block away!!! _

_ DOWNSTAIRS _

Rachel laughs as Bucky paces around near the front door, itching to greet Steve out on the street but unwilling to put on the mask like he has to every time he so much as steps one foot out on the balcony. 

Last night he figured out how to get a few decent hours’ sleep without Steve and he was proud of how okay he was doing today, but now that Steve’s so fucking close, Bucky’s so desperate for him that his skin is itchy. His heart’s beating loud between his ears, the energy in his limbs making him twitchy.

Bucky tries to breathe as he listens to the elevator, slowly carrying Steve up to the fifth floor. He loses all semblance of patience as Steve fumbles with his keys in the lock and ends up throwing open the door himself, yanking Steve inside by the collar of his jacket.

“Whoa!” Steve laughs as he stumbles in, dropping the shield, tucked away in its black bag. Bucky slams the door shut, throws the lock, and then takes Steve’s hand, tugging him towards their bedroom.

“Hi, Rachel!” Steve yells towards the living room as he follows.

“Hi, bubbeleh!” Rachel yells back. “You should really eat something!”

“I don’t think that’s up to me!”

Rachel laughs as Bucky hustles Steve inside the bedroom, pulling the door shut behind them.

“Hey there, honey.” Steve’s beaming. He leans close, trying to kiss Bucky hello, but Bucky shakes his head, tugging at Steve’s jacket until he cooperates and helps Bucky pull it off his shoulders. 

This is not the time for kissing. First, he’s gotta make sure Steve’s in one piece. Then there can be kissing.

Steve remains passive as Bucky pulls off his jacket and unbuttons his shirt with shaking fingers, his arm whirring. He even chuckles a little when Bucky manages to undo his belt and pull the thing free with one solid yank. When the shaking gets so bad that Bucky can’t successfully rid Steve of his too-goddamn-tight t-shirt, Steve stops laughing.

“Hey,” he whispers, stilling Bucky’s hands with his own. “Hey, hey. I’m fine, Buck. Completely fine.” 

He holds Bucky’s wrists and brings his hands up to rest on his chest. Bucky immediately moves them, finding the best spot to feel Steve’s heartbeat.

“You’re fine,” Bucky whispers. It seems pretty fucking stupid to remain mostly okay with Steve going on a mission while he was actually gone, only to freak out upon his return. Although it is better than the alternative, freaking out with Steve far away so Bucky couldn’t feel his heartbeat. “You’re fine.”

Steve nods, breathing deep and even as he loosely grips Bucky’s wrists.

It takes a few minutes to calm down, but Bucky manages to get his breathing under under control before he says, “You were in medical.”

Steve winces. “It was nothing.”

Bucky scowls at him while Steve glances everywhere in the room but at Bucky. “Was it actually nothing? Or a Rogers nothing?”

“ _ Actually _ nothing,” Steve insists and that’s something. Usually - during the war, in various Brooklyn alleys - Steve would admit that he was worse off than he was pretending to be if Bucky really pushed.

“Where?” 

“Here.” Steve unwraps his fingers from around Bucky’s wrists to pat his ribs. He doesn’t even wince at the motion. That’s something too.

“Shirt off.” Bucky’s determined to get a good look, despite all these good signs that Steve’s not hurt worse than he’s willing to let on.

Steve does as he’s told, lifting both arms to grab the neck of his t-shirt at his back, pulling the thing off with one clean tug. Bucky leans down to get up close and personal with the flurry of bruises coloring Steve’s ribs, a smattering of black, blue, and green, with a few already fading to yellow on the edges.

“Nothing even broke,” Steve says. “I landed strange, caught the edge of a low wall, and might’ve cracked a rib, but it was mostly healed up by the time we got to The Tower. I only went to medical because everyone yelled at me and I thought I’d get outta there quicker just going along with it than standing there arguing with all of them at once.”

“Huh,” Bucky says. With great care, he rests his left palm on Steve’s bruises, hoping the coolness of the metal will be soothing.

“It looks worse than it feels.”

Satisfied that Steve is, in fact, going to live, Bucky straightens up and wraps both his arms around his neck. He goes up on his toes to get as close to Steve as possible, making sure to avoid pressing against his bruises. Steve returns the hug, hiding his face against Bucky’s neck and letting out a big breath.

“Missed you,” he whispers.

Bucky nods. It doesn’t happen often these days, but his words are suddenly just out of reach.

They stand like that for a few long moments, until Bucky’s words come back. He’s ready for the kissing part but there are still a few questions in need of answering before he can lose himself to Steve’s mouth.

“So?” Bucky clears his throat and steps away. He’ll never get through his questions before the kissing if he keeps touching Steve. Or if he so much as looks at Steve. “How’d it go?”

Steve sighs and shucks his jeans. He leaves them on the floor, even with the laundry basket right fucking there, and collapses back onto the bed.

“That good, huh?” Bucky says, retrieving the jeans, wadding them up into a ball, and tossing them across the room and into the basket.

“It wasn’t horrible,” Steve says, sitting up on his elbows. 

Bucky crawls into bed next to him, settling against the pillows and staring carefully at the ceiling. It’s time for talking now, not kissing, but it’s really fucking hard to remember that when Steve’s laid out in bed like that, all that smooth skin on display.

“We didn’t find the damn thing, of course,” Steve says, “but we got some decent intel. Managed to find the place where they were holding the scepter, before DC happened, and a guy that might know where it was moved to. But this thing is scary, Buck. Really powerful, like the cube but different.”

“Yikes,” Bucky says.

“Yeah. I wasn’t expecting to find it on the first shot, but I hate that it’s out there somewhere, you know? Being used by who knows who to do who knows what.”

“Yikes.”

“Yeah.” Steve turns on his side to face Bucky and Bucky mimics his position, facing him, now that they’re wrapping up the talking part. “How were the last couple days here?”

“I can get drunk.”

Steve gasps. “You can  _ not _ !”

“Can  _ so _ ,” he brags, smirking. “It takes a lot, but I think I can get there. Only got a little buzzed, even though Clint drank enough he had to sleep it off on the couch in the middle of the goddamn day. But I think I can get there.”

“Son of a bitch.” Steve pouts and Bucky’s really looking forward to the kissing part. “I miss getting drunk.”

“I know you do, pal.” He reaches out, runs a hand through Steve’s hair and rests his hand on Steve’s jaw. “Hey, you want to make out for awhile and then warm up some leftovers? I made lasagna.”

Steve smiles, scoots forward to press a kiss to Bucky’s cheek, and breathes in deep. “That’s exactly what I wanna do, Buck.”

* * *

Bucky tries to leave the apartment once a week. It’s harder in the winter, when all he wants to do is stick close to the fire, or press himself into Steve’s perpetually too warm skin, or burrow under a pile of blankets. 

It’s freezing outside, grey and bleak and slushy after the new year, but he still leaves the apartment once a week, to continually prove to himself that he can. 

He wants it to be easy someday. He wants to leave the apartment and be mostly comfortable around people who didn’t know him in 1939. He wants to think about the memories locked away tight in his head without feeling like death would be preferable and he wants tell the authorities everything they want to know because he’ll have to, someday, to get everything else he wants. Like walking down the street with his own face, holding Steve’s hand.

But for now he’s just leaving the apartment at least once a week, sometimes more if the weather’s cooperating.

It’s unpleasant, especially because he can’t take Steve with him. People might be paying more attention to just how thoroughly Hydra’s infiltrated every level of government these days - and god fucking bless how casual New Yorkers force themselves to be about celebrities - but the last thing they need is for pictures of Steve hanging around town with Bucky in his Bob Mask to hit the internet.

As funny as it would be for the general public to speculate about Bob being Steve’s new sweetheart, that’s not the kind of attention anyone needs. There’s already been tabloid stories about Steve’s affairs with every Avenger (except Natasha) since he came out. 

So usually he goes out alone. Or with Rachel, if she’s feeling up for it. Or with Tam, if Bucky’s Big Weekly Trip Outside happens when they’re not at school or before curfew. 

This week, he’s going all the way to Manhattan, to the lower east side. The list of stops includes a kosher butcher, a tiny Jewish grocery, and someone called  _ The Pickle Guy _ . Bucky and Rachel are not all that great at pickling yet, and Rachel deserves the very best on her birthday.  _ The Pickle Guy  _ better live up to his name.

“This is weird,” Steve says. He’s back in bed after getting up for breakfast, lounging with a cup of coffee and a book (One of Beck’s, about queer soldiers in the Vietnam War).

Bucky pulls on his thickest sweater and sits on the edge of the bed so Steve can tie his hair up. Steve sets aside his coffee and book, and picks up the hairbrush off the bedside table. All without Bucky even having to ask.

“What’s weird?”

“I just realized I’m not usually around when you go out.” Steve works a couple knots out of Bucky’s hair with a brush and then gathers it together, low on the back of Bucky’s head.

“Yeah, usually I’m the one pouting while you get ready to leave.”

“So, you willingly admit to the pouting then?” Steve asks. 

Bucky rolls his eyes and Steve secures Bucky’s hair with a tie. “Are you admitting to pouting  _ now _ ?”

Steve laughs and kisses his shoulder, taking the beanie from Bucky’s hands and pulling it down on Bucky’s head, so low that it covers his eyes. Bucky turns to face him, huffing and fixing the thing. When his eyes are once more free, he rolls them some more at Steve.

“I could go with you,” Steve murmurs. He was all silly smiles a second ago, but he really is pouting now. 

Bucky smirks. It’s gratifying to see Steve on the other side of things for once, frowning over Bucky’s upcoming departure instead of the other way around.

“We agreed that we can’t risk any pictures of you and Bob.”

“Like I would ever date  _ Bob _ ,” Steve mutters. “Bob’s gotta have twenty-five years on me.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, trying not to laugh. “I programmed him that way. And technically I think he’d be about fifty years younger than you, pal. If anyone’s robbing the cradle in this scenario, it’s you.”

“Bob is  _ not _ younger than me.” Steve huffs. “And he’s  _ fictional _ !”

Bucky laughs, leaving Steve on the bed to dig out his warmest scarf and mittens. It’s grey and cold out today, but dry at least. There’s nothing so miserable as being wet and cold.

“I could drive,” Steve says, as Bucky sits back down on the edge of the bed to pull on his boots. “I’ll just stay in the car.”

“Tam’s driving. They just got their license last week. You really wanna disappoint them when they’ve been giddy about this little outing for a week?”

Steve sighs and rests his head against Bucky’s neck for a few seconds. Bucky hums and closes his eyes, leaning against Steve. They stay like that for a few seconds, until Rachel starts hollering about wanting to miss the traffic.

There is always traffic but Bucky still says, “Time to go.”

“Love you,” Steve replies.

Bucky blushes and nods and thinks he’s really close to being able to say it back.

“Keep Rachel’s phone on you, yeah?”

“Yup.”

“See you in a few hours.”

Bucky kisses the corner of his mouth, his cheeks, his nose, until he finds Steve’s mouth. Lingering for longer than he means to, they keep kissing until Rachel starts yelling again, threatening to get out of her wheelchair and drag Bucky away by the lapels of his jacket.

* * *

Tam is a very good driver. They’re cautious and courteous and follow all traffic laws to the letter. 

It’s fucking  _ maddening _ .

Bucky sits in the back seat and studiously does not suggest that Tam tailgate that motherfucker to encourage them to drive just a little faster over the bridge. Rachel talks about how to make the perfect brisket in the front.

There’s gotta be some happy medium between Tam’s extreme caution and Steve’s recklessness. Bucky will be driving for all future outings. 

They make it to the butcher in one piece, even if it takes them approximately eighteen goddamn years. Tam double parks so Bucky can help Rachel out of the car and then sets off to find a spot (or maybe just drive around aimlessly until Bucky and Rachel are done with their shopping, if no spots are readily available.)

The butcher’s name is David. He’s known Rachel for his entire goddamn life, and he rushes around the counter to hug her, speaking in Yiddish. Bucky only understands the language because some Nazi thought it’d be good for their assassin to know it. They put his father’s language in his head, probably so he could make families like his own dead.

Bucky closes his eyes for a second, his palms sweating. Under the layers of his jacket, hoodie, sweater, and skin sleeve, his arm whirrs. The chains wrapped around the memory box in his head rattle and Bucky counts out his breaths.  _ In two three four. Out two three four. _

When he’s calmed down enough to open his eyes again, he pretends he learned Yiddish from his family and friends. From his father and Rachel. He even manages to nod along as David explains that Rachel first came to the shop back in 1946, when his grandparents were running the place, two decades before David himself was born.

David talks about how Rachel and Rebecca used to babysit him. Bucky wants to ask more about what this man remembers of his sister, but Rachel introduced him as Bob and Bob’s an only child.

By the time they’ve got their cut of meat and Rachel’s asked about every living member of David’s family - and a few dead ones too - Tam’s out front.

“Got lucky,” they explain when Rachel expresses her surprise that Tam was able to find a parking spot. “I followed a rich lady with keys in her hands for a block and a half. It was probably creepy.”

“A classic tactic.” Rachel chuckles and takes Bucky’s arm. The three of them set off together towards the grocery, only a couple of blocks away.

* * *

“Do you remember,” Bucky says, leaning back in a chair, watching Steve paint, “all those dinners we used to have in Sully’s apartment?”

Steve thinks it’s warm enough today to do his painting up on the roof, easel set up among raised beds of dirt where the kids will plant things in the spring. 

Steve is wrong. 

It’s not warm enough to do anything up on the roof, even with the sun shining for the first time in weeks, but Steve can’t handle staying cooped up in the apartment for days on end like Bucky can. And Bucky can’t handle staying inside where it’s warm without Steve, not while Steve’s so close. 

So they’re both on the roof, Steve painting and Bucky in a chair facing him, covered in no less than four blankets.

“Sure, Buck,” Steve says, eyes intent on the canvas in front of him. He’s only been at it for half an hour and already he’s got a streak of yellow paint on his chin.

“I always wanted to host one at our place,” Bucky says, pulling his beanie down more firmly over his ears. “But it was too small and we didn’t need to draw any more attention to ourselves. Like a coupla fellas living together wasn’t suspicious enough. Frankly, I am amazed we pulled it off at all.”

Steve smirks, glancing at Bucky once before he’s back to the painting. “It was pretty queer, huh?”

Bucky grins back and bites his lip. “And now everyone knows. Someday, when I get my brain shit figured out, we could have every queer person in the tri-state area over for tea and it wouldn’t matter because everyone already  _ knows _ .”

Bucky giggles into his scarf and Steve sets down his brush to stare at him.

“What?” Bucky demands.

“You said when,” Steve says.

Bucky raises an eyebrow, having no goddamn clue what Steve’s referring to.

“You said when you get your brain shit together. Not if. It’s always been if, before now.”

Bucky bites his lip and shrugs and can’t quite figure out how to say,  _ I want to go to the park and hold your hand wearing my own face.  _ Steve just grins at him like a dope for a few more seconds until Bucky rolls his eyes and tells him to get back to his painting.

“Anyway,” Bucky says, satisfied that Steve’s main focus is on the canvas again and not Bucky’s brain shit. “I want tomorrow to be like that.”

“Like what?” 

“Like those dinner parties at Sully’s.” Bucky huffs and hunkers down in his blankets. He’s got maybe another twenty minutes of enduring the cold left in him.

“Ah.” Steve sticks his paintbrush in his mouth and rubs at something on the canvas with his thumb. “Well, there might be less getting drunk and busting out an impromptu drag routine with this crowd. But get a few drinks in Clint and really anything goes.”

Bucky laughs and rolls his eyes. “Not that. Just, the feeling, you know? Like family dinner, but without the stress of hanging out with my actual family. Where everyone was just happy and themselves and enjoying each other? It was good. Rachel was always happiest with a house full of people, you know? So we’ll just have to make do with your friends, I guess, but I still want it to be like that.” 

Steve’s looking at him again, expression soft and eyes glassy.

Bucky scowls at him, pulling his feet up on to his chair and hugging his knees to his chest. “ _ What _ ?”

“I’m sorry!” Steve covers his eyes with the heels of his hands, getting even more paint on his face. “I know you don’t want to talk about the brain shit and you hate it when people cry, but  _ god _ , Bucky.”

Still regarding Steve warily, Bucky says, “Are these happy tears?”

Laughing, Steve drops his hands from his face. His eyes are red, but he’s smiling. “Yeah, honey. Real happy.”

Bucky lets out a long suffering sigh, and then opens his arms. “C’mere.”

After shuffling around the four blankets, he ends up with a lap full of Steve. Bucky drapes his arms around Steve’s waist, fussing to make sure he’s covered and warm. Steve gets one arm around Bucky’s shoulders, resting his other hand over Bucky’s heart. He’s probably getting paint all over Bucky’s jacket.

“A year ago,” Steve whispers, “you were-- Well. You know what was going on a year ago.” 

“Frozen somewhere while Nazis plotted how to use me to kill you so they could successfully commit genocide via helicarrier?” Bucky supplies helpfully.

“And now,” says Steve, ignoring him, “here you are, planning birthday dinner parties and talking about the future and joking about the past. And I’m just. I’m so in awe of you, you know?”

Bucky shrugs because he doesn't quite know, not yet, but he might get there. Might be on his way. A year ago he was frozen in a box, waiting his next horrible mission with no memory of Steve Rogers or Rachel Rosenbaum/Barnes or even himself. It’s better now. He’s better.

The wind picks up a little and Bucky shivers, pressing his cold nose into Steve’s warm neck.

* * *

They talked about inviting Mia and Olive to dinner, along with a couple of Rachel’s other friends, but Rachel said for her birthday she wanted Bucky to be himself, so the only guests are the five people in the whole world that know that James Buchanan Barnes (aka The Winter Soldier) has been hiding out in Brooklyn for nine months.

Having people in the apartment still makes him nervous, so Bucky’s glad he doesn’t have to worry about being Bob and not touching Steve on top of the stress of entertaining.

Following the recipe in Rachel’s mother’s cookbook - something Beck apparently wrote up on the computer as the original is too old and too precious to have in a kitchen around sauces and the like - Bucky gets the brisket seasoned and in the oven hours before their guests are set to arrive. 

Steve hangs up the elaborate banner he made -  _ Happy 92nd Rach! -  _ over the entry to the kitchen. The lettering looks like something right off the windows of the Boyd’s butcher shop, but its background a series of intricate patterns with a cheerful color scheme, not a cartoon pig in sight.

Rachel sits in the kitchen, backseat cooking. She likes to pester Bucky as he puts together a meal and then gush all over about how perfect he is when it’s done. Bucky likes to snipe back, pretending like Rachel’s annoying him when really they’re both just having the time of their lives.

Steve wanders in occasionally, calling them both ridiculous, and trying to taste test things. Taste testing, in Captain America speak, apparently means getting out a bowl and trying to steal as many half-finished ingredients as possible. Bucky and Rachel drive him away time and time again with the combined force of their heckling.

For the occasion, Bucky actually takes the time to make the stock for the matzo ball soup, just like Rachel used to before she got too old and too lazy, and grocery stores started selling a suitable alternative.

He’s got a noodle kugel and a carrot-zucchini kugel too, which might be excessive but Rachel turned ninety-two goddamn years old today and it’s kinda a big deal.

For dessert, it’s matzo toffee. 

It might be a little overkill with the Jewish food, but his most vivid sense memories come from these flavors. He cooks and gets flashes of his bubbe taking over Ma’s kitchen a couple times a year and the low murmur of his father’s Hebrew and lighting that little menora Rachel gave him before she even knew him. 

Rachel breathes deep, taking in all the smells of the kitchen, and Bucky thinks it might be the same for her, too.

A full hour before their guests are due to arrive, the meal is pretty much done, the dishes done, the table is set. Steve’s cleaning job is acceptable - even if he just tossed a bunch of his crap in the gym room instead of taking the time to put it away properly - and Bucky’s got nothing to do but fret.

Sure, Sam and Clint and Natasha have all been regular guests in the apartment in recent months, but this is Rachel’s  _ birthday _ . It needs to be  _ special _ . Bucky doesn’t want to  _ fuck it up _ .

When he starts up with the nervous pacing and is seriously considering re-cleaning the kitchen, Steve pulls him into the shower. With the water piping hot, he washes Bucky’s hair and then rubs his shoulder, getting all the right spots around the metal that are always a goddamn problem. 

It’s much better than pacing around the apartment or doing 1000 one-armed pushups.

Bucky dresses carefully, pulling back his hair. He steals one of Steve’s black dress shirts and tugs on a pair of jeans tight enough to have Steve staring at him for a few seconds longer than usual.

“Ready, Buck?”

Bucky nods and sticks close to Rachel as Steve buzzes his friends up.

At the front door, Steve takes everyone’s jackets because he’s nice like that. Natasha reaches out to fix the collar of Clint’s shirt, keeping her hand on his shoulder even as she leans down to kiss Rachel’s cheek in greeting. Sam grabs Steve’s hand and does that stupid half hug thing where they slap each other’s backs. 

No one touches Bucky. He might invite these people into his home willingly enough, but touching is just  _ a bridge too fucking far. _

When they sit down to eat after cocktails, Sam requests a rare piece of meat but Bucky pretends not to hear him and gives him well done instead. Steve sighs and swaps Bucky’s plate for Sam’s, knowing full well that Bucky can’t stand anything even a little bit bloody anywhere near his mouth. (Unless it’s a cocktail with enough garnishes to almost count as breakfast.) 

Clint is probably disappointed that there’s no pizza on the menu, but he takes two huge scoops of the noodle kugel and looks happy enough. Natasha takes it upon herself to make sure Rachel’s wine glass is never empty. Everyone assures Bucky that the food is excellent.

Rachel sits at the head of the table, smiling her way through the meal. She looks absolutely radiant with her red dress and her red lips. She leaves them all in stitches, telling stories of past birthdays. That time Beck surprised her with a trip to Paris. That time Beck put together a scavenger hunt in Prospect Park, but then forgot where she hid Rachel’s present and they never did find it, even after searching well into the night. That time Beck wrote out and printed up their love story, romance-novel style, complete with a ridiculous portrait of the pair of them on the cover, posed like someone called Fabio.

Sam and Clint both want to read it. Rachel rolls her eyes, says, “Oy  _ Vey _ ,” and hands her wine glass over to Natasha for a refill.

When it’s time for gifts, Sam hands over a folder that apparently contains a paper he wrote about Frankie Barnes back in college. It makes Rachel cry. So do the paintings Steve did of her and Beck, one from their first wedding ceremony in the 50s and the other from when they made it legal in Massachusetts. And so does the rather benign earring and necklace set Clint and Natasha give her.

It’s a fucking ridiculous amount of happy tears, even for Rachel.

Bucky gives her nothing. He’d worked himself into a proper panic attack last week, freaking out over what to get her, and Rachel said that his continued presence in her life is gift enough. She called him precious, the best thing to ever come back to her, along with Steve. She said stuff is just stuff, and that all the time they spend together, the cooking and the knitting, that’s the real gift.

Bucky’s not sure if he believes her, but freaking out over a gift upset her so he gave up on getting her anything and threw himself into making her a perfect meal instead.

They end up lounging around in the living room after dinner. Bucky stokes a fire and sits obnoxiously close to Steve on the couch. He’s tense and awkward for only a minute, until Steve gets his arm around his shoulders without even blinking, without even pausing in the story he’s telling Rachel about some training mishap last week that had Clint falling out of a ceiling vent and landing in Steve’s arms, bridal style.

Bucky turns and presses into Steve’s side, resting a hand on his stomach, and it’s a little strange to do this around other people. Some not-quite-forgotten part of him still associates Big Steve with The War and Constantly Hiding This. There were plenty of times back with Steve in Brooklyn when they could be all over each other around other people - the  _ right _ people - but the war was different.

Bucky’s glad he gets to learn how to be casual and easy with this big body of Steve’s now, outside a war zone and safe in their home, by the fire with people who Steve trusts enough to keep Bucky a secret. Celebrating Rachel’s ninety-fucking-second birthday.

“Rach,” Steve says, running his hands through Bucky’s hair. “Did you know that on this day, seventy odd years ago, I came out to Bucky? Like for real, out loud. Explicitly.”

“That was Rachel’s birthday?” Bucky asks, glancing up at Steve.

“This wasn’t in Dr. Barnes’s book,” mutters Sam.

Steve laughs. “Not everything’s in the book, man. Some stuff you’re just gonna have to find out the old fashioned way, through conversation and such.”

Sam mutters some nonsense, low and under his breath, and drinks more wine. Sam’s probably had enough wine. Bucky might bring out another bottle, and fill Sam’s glass to the top, helping along with that inevitable hangover. Bucky snickers into Steve’s chest imagining it, but is too comfortable to actually get up and carry out his nefarious plans.

“This night’s special for more than one reason!” Rachel says, delighted. “Which birthday was it, bubbeleh?”

“Your seventeenth, the first night Sully let you drink at the bar on a weekend? Remember?”

“Not really.” Rachel laughs and shakes her head.

“Well,” says Steve. “That coulda been the booze. Everyone was pretty drunk. Which is probably why I finally told you where I’d been sneaking off to, Buck.”

“Good fucking thing,” Bucky mutters. “Really got the ball rolling, when I figured out you were leaning into the whole queer thing instead of ignoring it like me.”

“Finally got you to let go of all your stupid fucking rules about not touching me,” Steve muses. “Wonder where we’d be, without that drunken confession.”

“Right here,” Bucky says. He doesn’t know a lot, not how to act like a normal person or buy a birthday present without a panic attack, but he’s absolutely fucking certain that they’ll always find their way to each other, in any reality, in any decade. He was always meant to find Steve Rogers aka the lump aka Captain America, no matter what he had to live through to get to him. “It was always gonna be you and me, pal.”

“Aww,” says Clint from the other side of the living room where he’s jammed in with Natasha on the easy chair. He gives her a big hug from behind, probably because he’s not allowed to hug Bucky.

“Aww,” Rachel echoes, clutching her chest.

Steve’s heart rate picks up and he presses a kiss to Bucky’s temple. Even Natasha is grinning, Sam smiling a little despite himself.

“What?” Bucky asks. His cheeks heat up with a blush, because this is another thing he doesn’t know. The whole room is looking at him with soft, dopey expressions, and he can’t imagine why.

“That was fucking romantic, man,” Clint says, shaking Natasha around a little. She doesn’t fight him off, just reaches up to squeeze his forearm. “Wasn’t it, Nat?”

“Real romantic,” says Natasha. 

“So romantic,” echos Rachel.

“It’s not  romantic ,” Bucky insists. “It’s just  true .”

That sets off another round of  _ aww-ing _ , and Bucky’s almost relieved when an alarm starts blaring from four separate cell phones, that familiar, horrible screeching that calls the Avengers to assemble.

Bucky is decidedly less relieved when it becomes clear that Steve’s about to leave right now for who knows long.

“I’m so sorry, honey,” he whispers after Bucky drags him to their bedroom for a private goodbye. He hides his face in Bucky’s hair and Bucky squeezes his eyes shut. “I know you hate this.”

“I never said that.” It’s true, though. Bucky does hate it, hates every second Steve puts himself in danger to save the world. Hates how useless it makes him feel, how tired Steve is when he gets back. Hates every moment of self-sacrifice and do-goodery.

“It was a really great party,” Steve continues.

“Sure.”

“I mean it. You did such a good job, with the cooking and the entertaining. Did you see how happy Rachel was?”

“Yeah.” And she was happy. All night, she was beaming and beautiful, looking decades younger than ninety-two, right up until Steve got called away on another mission.

Steve gives him a lingering kiss as a goodbye, and promises to call when he can. Bucky cleans the kitchen and doesn’t even bother trying to sleep in his own bed without Steve. Rachel’s not surprised when he crawls in next to her. She just finds his hand in the dark, squeezing his fingers and whispering, “He’ll be back. Steve always comes back.”

“Sure,” Bucky says. “They were all supposed to take leftovers. What the hell are we supposed to do with all that goddamn kugel?”

* * *

Four days later, Steve comes home.

“Did you find it?” Bucky asks when he stumbles through the front door, collapsing down on the couch without even bothering to kick off his shoes or put the shield away. He looks exhausted, like he didn’t sleep the whole time he was gone. Even Bucky managed a few hours a night.

“No,” Steve says, groaning. “But we’re getting closer, got a whole heaping pile of new intel to pore over. But I just want this  _ done _ . That goddamn scepter. Messing with shit like that is never a good idea. You’d think even the evil guys woulda figured it out by now, but  _ oh no _ .”

Bucky sighs and joins Steve on the couch. Steve shuffles around until he can lie with his head in Bucky’s lap. 

“It was a weird mission, too,” Steve mutters into Bucky’s thighs.

“Yeah?”

“Tony figured out we’d all been celebrating Rachel’s birthday without him.” Steve sighs and presses closer to Bucky. Bucky rubs the back of his neck. “We all smelled like wine, apparently. So he felt left out and was pissy the whole fucking time.”

Bucky winces and does not let himself feel guilty for indirectly fucking with the dynamics of Steve’s team. “You thought about telling the rest of them?”

“Yeah, but Tony’s not great with secrets.”

“If you can’t trust him to keep me a secret then you really shouldn’t trust him with your life, Steve,” Bucky whispers. He hates every goddamn second that Steve’s gone, and his only consolation is the team he’s got watching his back. Sam and Natasha and Clint. Tony Stark and the gorgeous alien god and the smart, scary one.

It’s gonna be a lot fucking harder next time, if Steve really doesn’t trust Tony Stark.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. He sits up, looks shifty and guilty. “I’ll have to think on that one. Wanna grab a shower?” No amount of eyebrow waggling and grinning can cover up his exhaustion. 

Or disguise the fact that he’s blatantly changing the goddamn subject.

Bucky cocks his head to the side, studies Steve, and will not let himself be distracted. 

“Oh,” he says when he gets it. A headache prickles behind his eyes and he won’t let himself remember, even as he understands Steve’s hesitation to tell Tony Stark. “I killed his parents.”

“Bucky.” He murmurs the name like an apology.

“I killed his parents.”

“He doesn’t know that.”

Bucky glares. “And you don’t think you should fucking tell him? It’s going to come out eventually, Steve.”

Steve grimaces and stares at his lap. “You don’t know that.”

“I really fucking do.” Bucky wants to push, but Steve’s clenching his jaw and fisting his hands, slipping into full on stubborn idiot mode.

Tonight is not the time to push, not when Steve hasn’t slept in days.

Bucky sighs and stands, tugging Steve up with him. “C’mon. Let’s get you that shower and put you to bed.”

Steve lets out a huge, relieved breath, and keeps an arm around Bucky’s waist as they walk to the bedroom.

They only get a few hours’ peace before Steve’s phone is calling him away again, with just a time to assemble first thing in the morning and a location for their next mission.

Sokovia.

* * *

**1939**

Bucky stands outside the apartment door, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers. Inside, he can make out the din of familiar voices, laughter and a record playing in the background.

There’s no reason to be nervous. He knows the people on the other side of the door and has made it into the bar a handful of times without Steve in the last month. Showing up on his own should be no problem, and Rachel invited him explicitly, even after she found out Steve would be in class until late, but he still thinks of these people as Steve’s friends, not his.

He hesitates for a few more minutes, until the dallying gets ridiculous and he forces himself to knock. The door swings open almost immediately and Bucky breathes a little easier because it’s Zelda smiling at him from the other side.

He’s not sure how she and Rachel ended up getting together, but he’s selfishly glad that he’s got an excuse to keep on seeing Zelda without having to pretend he’s got any interest in being her sweetheart.

“Well, don’t you look swell,” she says, reaching out to tug on his tie. 

Zelda’s barefoot, in a pair of capris, her pale blond falling in loose waves around her shoulders. He might be a little overdressed for a group dinner at Rachel’s place, but looking nice made him less nervous about showing up without Steve on his arm. 

“Uh,” he says, running a hand through his hair. His eyes go wide as his fingers come away greasy with brylcreem and he casts around wildly for somewhere to wipe his hand for a moment before just sticking it deep in the pocket of his slacks.

Zelda smiles at him, but somehow refrains from laughing. She takes the bottle of wine cradled in his arm, and tugs him through the doorway. “Come in, come in.”

He follows her inside, marveling over the size of the apartment. It seems to take up most of the floor, with the kitchen open and separated from the living room by a fully set dining table. The furnishings are modest, but there’s more than enough seating for all the people lounging around. 

He mostly recognizes everyone from the bar. Peter and Raul - the only guys anywhere close to Bucky’s age - are sprawled out on a couch near the record player. An older couple, both named Michael, are already seated at the table, talking to Rachel as she stirs something at the stove but they turn to nod at Bucky in greeting. Sully’s at the sink, washing his hands. 

It takes Bucky a few moments to recognize the fella leaning on the counter at Sully’s side. He’s in a casual dress today, his face painted but going without the wig, in some middle ground between Frank the Tailor and Claudette the Drag Queen.

Rachel squeals when she sees Bucky, abandoning the stove to throw herself into a hug. She leaves a lipstick mark on his cheek when she kisses him, and Bucky’s not totally sure what he did to win her over but he’s grateful for her enthusiastic greeting anyway.

Bucky relaxes while they eat, when it becomes clear that no one seems to find it strange that he’s here on his own. Frank asks about Steve, so Bucky gets to gush about his art for a couple minutes. Rachel smiles at him and puts aside a plate for Steve for later.

After dinner, Rachel shoos him out of the kitchen when he tries to help with the dishes. He ends up in the living room with a bottle of beer, chatting with Peter and Raul. Peter puts on a blues record, nothing Bucky’s ever heard before.

“Hey,” Peter says, squeezing Raul’s hand as he sits back down. “This here’s who I’m playing with next week.”

“This is Big Joe Turner?” Raul asks, raising an eyebrow and looking far from impressed.

“Yeah, just put out this recording a couple months ago. Guess his usual trombone player broke his wrist. Just two days ago. Don’t know how the hell he got my name, but it ain’t the kinda gig I’m about to turn down.”

“Hmm.” Raul takes a long sip of his beer. “It’s sorta slow for dancing.”

Bucky’s got to hide his laugh in a sip of his own drink because Raul might be trying his best to be diplomatic, but Peter’s whole face drops with horror anyway, eyes wide, mouth open. 

“There ain’t no  _ dancing _ at Café _ Society.” _

Raul mutters under his breath. Shaking his head, he leans back against the couch, like he’s settling in for the long haul. From the way Peter is sputtering and gesturing with his beer bottle, it certainly looks like he’s building up to something big.

“Ms. Holiday sings  _ Strange Fruit _ on that stage, goddamn it. You really think there’s  _ dancing _ ? No, sir, you stand there and you listen to every goddamn note those musicians play for you, is what you damn well do. You pay attention and you focus, goddamn it. If you want music for dancing, you can swing on by the Cotton Club, except you  _ can’t _ because it's whites  _ only _ , unless you’re  _ the goddamn entertainment _ .”

“I know, sugar,” says Raul, long suffering and indulgent. He pats Peter’s knee. “I know.”

Bucky’s lost the thread of the conversation a bit, but he watches them avidly, trying to hide his grin behind his beer bottle.

They’re the real deal, a couple, complete with well-worn arguments and bickering and the works. Peter’s mentioned a bathhouse up in Harlem and Raul takes out dames the way Bucky’s ma wishes he’d take out dames, but they talk about the future like it’s a given they’ll still be together. Like they don’t have a set ending, the way Bucky and Steve do.

Neither of them seem to have grand plans of marrying a girl, having some kids, and going back to being friends only. They aren’t just biding their time, savoring every moment together before giving it up for a normal life. There’s no expiration date, no future where they’ll tragically part and settle down and start running their family’s company with a pretty wife on their arm.

They’re just living, staying together because they want it that way, and making it work however they can.

Bucky’s never fathomed anything like that, not in his wildest fantasies.

And it’s interesting, is all.

“You really not gonna come see me play because there’s no dancing?” Peter asks Raul, pouting.

Raul rolls his eyes and leans forward, giving Peter a smacking kiss on his cheek. “Like I’d miss any show with you in it. The way you get all sweaty under those lights? Working so hard up there, with your shirt clinging to your chest? The view sure will make up for Slow Joe Turner, crying about his baby leavin’ him all on his lonesome.”

“ _ Big _ Joe Turner,” Peter corrects, but he’s apparently satisfied with this answer because he leans back, draping an arm over Raul’s shoulders as he nods at Bucky. “What about you, Bucky Boy? Wanna come?”

“I just might,” Bucky says, tapping his foot along with the music. “I like this.”

“See!” Peter says, shaking Raul. “At least someone around here’s got some goddamn taste.”

“Where’re you playing?” Bucky asks. “I don’t think I’ve heard of this place.”

Raul sighs in a distinctly don’t-get-him-started kinda way but Peter smiles wide.

“Café Society,” he says. “Basement place over in Sheridan Square, just so happens to be the first integrated club in the entire goddamn city.”

“Really?” Bucky sits up a little straighter, leans forward in his seat.

“No dancing,” Peter says again. “Mostly it’s a bunch of lefties standing around in the dark, listening so intently you’ll get yourself kicked the hell out at the first sign of chit-chatting. And it’s one of the only places that’ll get us Black folks downtown.”

“Oh, I know what else gets you  _ downtown _ ,” says Raul, waggling his eyebrows. “And it don’t got nothing to do with music.”

“I don’t know about that,” Peter replies, laughing. “You sure do make me sing, babydoll.”

Bucky’s getting used to this kind of flirting between men. His first instinct is still to do something aggressively  _ not queer _ in response, but it’s gotten easier to ignore it every time he’s hung out with Steve’s friends, and now he just laughs.

“So, you coming to the show or what, Bucky?” Peter asks.

“You know,” Bucky says, “sometimes I throw on a record and sprawl out on the floor with my kid sister? And we’ll both close our eyes and concentrate real hard, trying to listen? Each and every note?”

Peter grins like Bucky’s passed some sort of test. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. So this no chit-chatting rule sounds real good. Plus, Steve really likes lefties.”

“Oh,” says Peter, snapping his fingers. “There’s all these murals on the walls. So Steve’ll like that too.” He turns back to Raul, bumping against his shoulder. “Hey, you still gonna come see me play when I’ve got grey hair and my old knees shake too bad to stand on a stage? When I’ve gotta sit in a chair to play and all the songs are tear jerkers about lost youth?”

Raul rolls his eyes again. “Of course. By then I’ll be too deaf to hear these blues guys sing their sad songs, anyhow.”

Peter laughs and presses a kiss to Raul’s cheek, quick and joyful. It’s nothing Bucky hasn’t seen from his parents a thousand times, but suddenly he can’t bear to look at them. They make his heart ache, and Bucky starts flipping through Peter’s crate of records, mostly for the distraction.

By the time Steve shows up an hour later, hunched a little like his back is aching and with blue paint splattered on his cheek like a dusting of freckles, Bucky’s had four more beers and Peter keeps forgetting Bucky doesn’t own a record player, trying to make him borrow album after album.

“Aw, boy,” says Steve, rolling his eyes at Bucky and dumping his bag next to Bucky’s chair. “Look at you.”

“What?” Bucky’s only half-listening, because Steve’s stretching with his arms high above his head and Bucky really wants to get a hand around his narrow hip. It takes a few more seconds of staring to remember he can.

Steve shuffles closer so Bucky can get an arm all the way around his waist, bumping into Bucky’s side and turning faintly pink under the paint splatters. He nods down at Peter, who mutters drunken nonsense about Big Joe Turner and the murals at Café Society that Steve’s got no hope of following without hearing their previous conversation, and when Rachel comes over to kiss his cheek and push a plate of food into his hands, he grins at her. But he doesn’t stray far from Bucky, eventually settling down in Bucky’s lap to eat his oven-warmed leftovers.

Bucky loses track of the conversation around them, drifting slightly and drunk enough to allow himself to pretend, just for tonight, that they are like Peter and Raul. That they’ll stay together always, with no end date or familial obligations or inevitable marriages to get in the way.

Tomorrow he’ll go back to reminding himself that this won’t last, but tonight with Steve on his lap and Peter putting on records and Zelda tugging Rachel into her arms, gently swaying around the living room while the Michaels do the same, it’s so easy to pretend that they’ll have this forever.

* * *

**1940**

It’s months before anyone brings up their future. Bucky’s surprised that Steve doesn’t say anything sooner - although Bucky’s not particularly keen to talk about it either and hasn’t had a dame on his arm besides Zelda - and then he’s doubly surprised when it’s not Steve hatching some hairbrained marriage scheme, but Rachel.

She says it like a joke, talking about how she’ll marry Steve and Bucky will marry Zelda and they’ll all live queerly ever after, easy as pie. And they all have a nice chuckle, but over the top of Rachel’s head, Zelda catches Bucky’s gaze. Her face is too pale. Her eyes sad. She takes a deep breath, shakes her head once, and closes her eyes.

Bucky holds on to Steve. He knows from experience now, that it's going to be even harder in the harsh light of morning to remind himself that this isn’t permanent.

* * *

On the first week Rachel drags them all to a Yiddish theater in Manhattan and they end up at a Childs afterwards for a late night meal. They’ve gone a record sixteen days without Steve or Rachel bringing up the let’s get married  _ joke _ but Rachel’s indulged in one too many fancy gin drinks over the course of the evening and the moment they're all done eating she says, “I designed two wedding dresses this week.”

“For yourself?” Steve asks.

“No, one’s for you, darling.” Rachel reaches across the table to pat his cheek. 

“I do look good in white,” Steve says - an abject lie, the color makes him look pale and sickly - but Rachel titters, enraptured with the idea of stitching Steve into a wedding dress.

Bucky can’t help but smile at their antics, but mostly he stays silent and watches Zelda across the table. He seems to be the only one who notices the way she tenses up when ever the subject of getting married comes up. This time she’s scooted as far from Rachel as possible on the bench seat of the booth, nearly spilling out into the aisleway.

“Zelda,” he says, his voice pitched low under Steve and Rachel’s chatter. “You want to step out for cigarette? Get some fresh air?”

She’s up immediately, practically running toward the exit. Rachel glances at her and frowns for a second before she jumps back into detailing her plans for a wedding dress for Steve. Steve squeezes Bucky’s forearm as he stands, but lets him go after only a second.

Zelda’s loitering a little ways down the block, away from the crowd milling around the front of the restaurant, the only late night spot on an otherwise deserted street. She’s got her arms crossed over her chest, her shoulders hunched up around her ears. Bucky wants to wrap her in a hug or squeeze her shoulders until she relaxes, but Zelda doesn’t like to be touched when she’s upset.

He lights a cigarette, handing it to her after he gets it going, and then lights another for himself.

“We’re going to have to talk to them about it eventually, you know.” Zelda breathes out smoke, tilting her head back and closing her eyes. “Really talk to them.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s never been a joke.”

“Yeah.”

“They make it sounds so easy. And it’s not.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “It wouldn’t be easy. But don’t you think it’s at least worth considering? Really considering?”

Zelda’s head whips around as she stares at him, blond hair flying and mouth agape. She looks horrified, betrayed, like he was the only reasonable one left on her side and now even he’s abandoned her.

Bucky can’t look her in the eye. He knows indulging in the fantasy is stupid, futile, and sure to make it all hurt worse when things inevitably fall apart, but he’s weak in the face of Rachel and Steve’s unrelenting optimism. It’s impossible not to imagine, not when it’s a version of the future so far preferable to the one he always thought he’d have.

“What happened to all your plans?” Zelda puffs on her cigarette and looks at him. “Aren’t you going to settle down with a nice girl and give your mother grandchildren and take over the company? Or have you changed your mind?”

“No,” Bucky says, wincing. The answer doesn’t sound as sure as it would’ve been even a month ago. His conviction has been steadily crumbling since he walked into Sully’s by himself for the first time. “No, I haven’t changed my mind. Not really. But I still think it’s worth considering.”

“You want it,” Zelda whispers.

Bucky shrugs. “You don’t?”

Zelda blinks tears out of her eyes. She’s quiet as she finishes her cigarette, and Bucky lets her be. Sometimes he thinks he might understand Zelda even better than Rachel, who has no patience for silence. She’ll poke and prod at Zelda when Zelda just needs to take her time, mulling over something or another.

Bucky will give her all the time in the world, and again he thinks about how much easier it would be if he could just love her the way he’s supposed to. 

“It’s more complicated than simply wanting something and going after it,” Zelda says. She flicks what’s left of the cigarette onto the pavement, crushing it under the toe of her shoe.

Bucky thinks she might not have anything more to say on the subject, but then she turns, standing right in front of him. She’s taller than Steve, and no less intimidating when she wants to be. She stares up at him, some strange combination of furious and heartbroken.

“Do you ever think you got confused, somewhere?” she asks. “That as much fun as all this is, it’s not real. Like you could just stop this and be who you’re supposed to be?”

“Supposed to be,” Bucky repeats, like he didn’t just think those words half a minute ago, when he was ruminating again on how their lives would be if he loved her for real.

“You know,” Zelda insists. “Who you’re supposed to be. A husband. A father.  _ Normal _ .”

“I can be all those things,” Bucky says. “I probably will be. But that doesn’t particularly mean I want to be.”

Zelda looks at him for a long moment and then plucks the cigarette from between Bucky’s fingers, smoking it herself.

“I can’t talk about this sort of thing with Rachel,” she says, glancing over her shoulder to make sure they are still alone. Steve and Rachel are probably still giggling at each other with the table between them. It’s been a good night, a happy one, until now. “She’s so sure. She’s always been so sure that it’s alright that we are like this. That we’re not...sinners. She’s so sure it’s the rest of the world that’s the problem, but I’m not. I’m not sure at all.”

She closes her eyes, breathes deep around her cigarette. Bucky sticks his hands in his pockets, down deep as they will go, to keep from hugging her.

“Sometimes,” she whispers like it’s a secret, “I think I could just confess all these sins and be absolved and become a nun and that would be that.”

Bucky frowns at her. “A nun? Really?”

“Or I’d just stop.” Zelda sighs. “I wouldn’t confess and I’d go with God. Sometimes I don’t even understand how I reached this place. Sometimes I don’t even recognize my life.”

“It’s been pretty good though, hasn’t it?” Bucky asks, heart sinking. He feels like he’s missing something because Zelda’s been so obviously happy right along with the rest of them, at least when there’s no marriage talk.

“Yes,” Zelda replies immediately, even if she doesn’t look happy about it. “Yes, of course it’s been good. Too good, even. So good I know I won’t actually stop.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say, so he just watches her smoke her cigarette.

“Did I ever tell you that there was someone before?” Zelda asks after a few beats of silence. “In New Jersey?”

Bucky shakes his head.

“We were friends. Good friends. And I thought it was nothing. Just a bit of fun. Just something we did, from time to time. I thought it was aberration. An anomaly, certainly nothing that would happen again or have any great effect on my life. And I knew it wouldn't go on forever. I didn’t want it to. So when my aunt got sick and I got the job at the hospital, it seemed like a good chance for a fresh start.”

“And then you met Rachel,” Bucky says.

Zelda smiles, and she doesn’t look so miserable now. “And then I met Rachel. She’s no aberration. I was very resolved to stay away from her in the beginning. Of course that ended in no time at all.”

Zelda chuckles and Bucky laughs along with her. For a few seconds, he thinks that Zelda will finish her cigarette and they’ll go back inside, happy and ready to enjoy the rest of the night with the people they love. 

But then Zelda’s face falls again and she says, “Sometimes, I believe what people say about folks like us. And I think if I told Rachel she’d hate me for it.”

“Oh, Zelda. Rachel could never hate you, especially not about that.” 

Bucky knows this for fact, because he’s been where Zelda is. Hands shaking, feeling like he might be sick, Bucky walked into Sully’s without Steve and sat at the bar across from her. He was so unsure then, but she gave him drinks and listened to him and told him about her bubbe. She was kind. She was understanding. And somehow, some of her surety rubbed off on him.

And now he is standing in front of Zelda without even a hint of doubt. After year of hanging out at Sully’s, dinners with couples like the Michaels and Peter and Raul, and going to bed every night with wrapped up in Steve, it became impossible to sustain that level of self-hatred.

He didn’t realize, until just this moment, that he’s not ashamed to be queer anymore. Given the life he’s been living with Steve he’s even grateful for it, so fucking overjoyed that he gets to love his best friend the way he does.

And it breaks his heart to see Zelda like this.

Zelda sighs and nods. “You’re right. I know you’re right. Maybe she’d be kind about it, but I don’t think she’d really understand. Not like you. You really understand because you’ve felt like this, haven’t you?”

Bucky swallows past the lump in his throat and nods. “I don’t feel like that anymore.”

“Good,” Zelda says and her smile is small but genuine. “And I’m happy for you. But how can I possibly entertain this marriage talk when I am so unsure?”

And again, Bucky doesn’t know what to say. 

He can talk till the cows come home, get a whole bar rolling with laughter over a well told story, but he doesn’t actually say anything that matters. He’s not Steve, always ready to slip into a stirring speech when he’s worked up. He’s not Rachel, who can listen to any patron at the bar go on about every personal problem imaginable and still know just what to say.

He doesn’t know how to help Zelda hate herself any less so he just repeats the thing Rachel told him, that first time he had a real conversation with her, just the pair of them.

“Zelda,” he says. “You’re perfect, just the way you are.”

Zelda cracks a smile, and rolls her eyes at him. She’s heard this from Rachel a time or two and it’s pretty apparent that she doesn’t believe that for a minute, but at least she no longer looks like she wants to curl up on the dirty sidewalk and just give up.

“You sure are something, Bucky Barnes.” She finishes off her cigarette and reaches out to straighten his tie. “You know that?”

“So they tell me. C’mere,” he says, opening his arms and gesturing with his hands.

That has her laughing, shaking her head and rolling her eyes some more, but she steps closer into the hug. 

“You should talk to Rachel,” Bucky says into her soft hair. “I think you’ll feel better.”

“Okay.” She just melts into his arms, hides her face in his chest and breathes deep. They stand there for awhile, until Steve and Rachel stumble outside to join them.

“Aw,” Rachel says. She’s got an arm draped over Steve’s shoulders, the pair of them swaying slightly as they approach. “Don’t you two make such a pretty picture.”

Rachel crashes into Bucky’s side and then attempts to hug all three of them at once. It makes Zelda laugh some more. She stops hugging Bucky to hug Rachel, and then slips her arm in Rachel’s, leading the way down the street towards the subway.

“Hey.” Steve leans against Bucky’s side. “Everything okay?”

Bucky watches the girls. Zelda still laughing as Rachel bounces at her side like she’s playing hopscotch.

Zelda might be suffering, but as much as Bucky wishes he could fix it for her, he feels lighter. Like their emotionally fraught conversation provided something of a revelation for him.

He’s sure now, not just about Steve but about himself. There’s nothing wrong with him. Even if he does have to settle down with a woman just to fit in, he’s not ashamed anymore. He’s got no doubts left.

“Yeah,” he says, getting an arm around Steve’s shoulders.

Steve frowns up at him. “You sure?”

Bucky grins wide, from ear to ear. “I’m sure.”

* * *

It’s a good summer. And their good summer stretches into a good fall and the beginnings of a good winter. Steve doesn’t get sick. Zelda starts smiling when Rachel talks about wedding dresses. Winnie nods in approval when Zelda slips into the pew next to them at Church and gives Rachel much more responsibility for cooking the holiday meals.

With each day, this life they’re creating feels a little more secure, a little more sustainable. Like Bucky marrying Zelda and Steve marrying Rachel is actually something that could work, instead of a big joke.

Just before the New Year, they have another group dinner at Sully’s apartment. They all went their separate ways for the holidays, spending time with their families and acting as normal as possible. Bucky feels like he can finally breathe again, after so much time pretending around his parents. Everyone is loose and happy and quick to smile, like they’re all feeling the relief. So they make it a real celebration, with more food than usual, more drink, presents all around. 

At the end of the night, after the older crowd has gone home to bed, they sit around in the living room, drunk and full and listening to whatever record Peter deems appropriate for the occasion. Everyone is quiet, Peter sitting on the floor with his back to the wall for the best access to the record player, legs stretched out with Raul’s head in his lap. Rachel and Zelda curled up in an arm chair. Bucky on the couch, tucked under Steve’s arm with his head on Steve’s chest.

Peter’s singing along, his voice deep and steady. Rachel throws bobby pins at him, saying his singing is far prettier than his trombone. 

Bucky’s warm and happy, more at ease than he is around his family. But this is family too, the one he found. And it’s one he’s determined to keep.

He looks at Zelda only to find her staring at him already and it’s like a repeat of that night over a year ago, when Rachel brought up marriage. They were all in the same positions, curled together on armchair and couch, when Zelda’s gaze had found his, all wide-eyed and terrified. 

Now, she just cracks a smile, glances down at Rachel and presses a kiss to her hair, and then looks at Bucky, nodding. He nods back, suddenly understanding her completely.

She must be more sure now, that this is a family she wants to keep, too.

After the New Year, he’ll talk to her about the whole marriage thing, and then he’ll talk to Steve. It’ll be his resolution, to really figure out if its something they can actually do.

The life he’s never let himself want seems so possible, on a quiet night at a safe apartment over a queer bar, after a good summer and a good fall. He lets himself think about it now, and lets go of all his other plans, the ones his mother laid out for him when he was only seven years old.

After the New Year, they’ll talk about it. And maybe this time next year, Zelda will be his wife on paper and Steve will be his husband in his heart.

He’ll start fighting for the family he wants, right after the New Year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you remember me?? And this story??? Its been approximately 18 years since I last updated and for this I am so very sorry. Summers can get ridiculously busy, but I am back at the writing and feeling good. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter! And thanks for sticking with me!
> 
> Endless thanks to Di and AJ for fixing up this sucker. AJ is also the master if hashtags, managing to come up with way better ones than I ever could!
> 
> Come say hi on [Tumblr!](http://jaxington.tumblr.com)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, gentle readers! For those of you still with me (whoa boy is 6 months a long time to wait for an update) fear not! This story shall be finished. I've been working away as much as my dumb real life allows.
> 
> Here is an extra long chapter as a thank you for your patience. Things are really rolling now, and as usual, I hope you all like the chapter.
> 
> Oh, and I watched Age of Ultron exactly once years ago and could not bring myself to repeat the experience even for this story. So this is based on what little I remember of the details.
> 
> Enjoy!

Steve’s gone for a total of ten days, and in that time he almost dies upwards of twenty-two thousand goddamn times. 

Bucky watches most of it on TV, Rachel squeezing his hand. He doesn’t really feel her grip, doesn’t really understand when she murmurs, “We should turn this off. We shouldn’t be watching this. Bucky, this can’t be good for you. Bucky?” 

He loses a lot of time, which turns out to be a blessing because in a blink the situation’s changed from Steve about to die - when an entire city, ripped from the ground and floating miles above the surface, crashes back to earth - to watching Steve help civilians off a transport shuttle, safe and sound,  with the smoking ruins of the fallen city taking up the shot behind him. 

The details remain fuzzy, although Bucky doesn’t try very hard to figure out the how and why of this particular near world-ending and Steve-killing moment. Somehow Tony Stark created a murder robot powered by something very like the alien thing that allowed Hydra to make all those freaking incinerating weapons, and Bucky would really rather not know more than that.

“You know,” Rachel says, letting out a big breath, “back in my day, we’d go whole days at a time without technology, aliens, or Nazis trying to destroy the world.”

Steve calls while he’s still live on TV. Bucky watches him on the screen, face caked with grime. He covers his mouth with his hand, turns away from the camera, and through the phone he says, “Bucky? Rachel? You there?”

Despite the destruction surrounding him, Steve’s keeping it together, his voice all Captain America, flat and commanding.

Time slips away from Bucky again, flickering and fleeing even as he tries to hold on, to stay present to hear Steve, to assure himself that Steve’s okay and to assure Steve in turn that no matter how bad it was, Bucky’s okay too, still waiting for him at home. 

He’s got no words for reassurances. No ability to stay present.

When he becomes aware of his surroundings again, the sun’s much lower in the sky and he’s under the kitchen table, Rachel seated close. Her slipper clad foot is deliberately pressed into his thigh. 

“I don’t know what to tell you, bubbeleh,” she says. “He’s been unresponsive for the last couple hours. He’ll come out of it. He’s been like this before.”

“Not for months!” 

That’s Steve’s voice coming in tinny through the speaker and Bucky takes a shuddering breath, feeling like his lungs are collapsing in his chest before they inflate too full, like his whole chest is stretching. 

The last thing he remembers is a phone call from Steve, but this must be a different one. Now, Steve sounds exhausted and terrified, full on panicking. The tone is enough to convince Bucky that it’s really over. Steve’s really okay. Or not dead at least. He always manages to stay in control during missions, not letting himself feel anything else until it’s done, until he’s safe again and can shake apart in Bucky’s arms in some cluster of trees out of sight of the Howlies.

Except, no. That was a different war. A long time ago. He can’t hold Steve now because Steve is across the world and Bucky’s never going to leave the shelter of under the table again.

“How could you let him watch that, Rachel?” Steve demands. “You knew it wouldn’t be good for him to see that. How could you?”

Rachel takes a deep breath. He watches as the frail old hand resting under the table in her lap balls into a fist as she says, “Steve, surely you are not blaming me for the violent, tragic incident perpetrated by your team and the impact your involvement in fixing the mess has had on your husband’s mental health.”

Bucky closes his eyes.

“Right,” Steve whispers. “You’re right. It’s my fault. This is all my fault.”

“No,” Rachel says in a rush. Under the table, her hand unclenches, all the fingers splayed out like she’s trying to reach right through time and space to hold Steve’s hand. “No, bubbeleh, I’m not saying it’s your fault. I understand why you did what you did. Your actions saved so many people. If you weren’t there to get people out of the city before it fell.  _ Well _ .”

“Yeah, well, plenty died anyway.”

“That’s not your fault,” Rachel says again. “But it’s not my fault either. You’ve known for a long time now what the fallout of your job could be, what it might do to Bucky, and I’m not saying that you should stop, because lives are on the line. It’s an impossible, complicated situation, but you always knew this was a possibility. Now is the time to stop assigning blame, stop beating yourself up, and deal with the consequences.”

Steve huffs out a breath. “Yeah,” he says and it sounds like he’s got a long way to go on that not-beating-himself-up thing. “We’re gonna need to stay here for awhile, help with the clean up and the aid. It’s going to a few days, maybe a week. I need to come home now and I need to stay here because this is our fucking mess and I don’t--”

“Steve,” Rachel murmurs. “My darling boy. Breathe. In and out. Count with me.”

So Rachel breathes deep, continuing in two, three, four, out two, three, four, and Steve breathes with her, deep and even through the phone. Bucky follows along too, and for awhile he feels okay, as the three of them breathe in the kitchen. His lungs seem to have shrunk down to a more manageable size.

“Thanks, Rach,” Steve says eventually.

“You do what you need to do,” Rachel says. “Deal with what’s right in front of you for now. We’ll manage here. We’re both safe, and you do what you need to there to help those poor people.”

“Okay,” Steve murmurs. “Can you let me talk to Bucky? I know he’s not really responsive, but could you just put the phone near his ear or something?”

Rachel shuffles around, until she’s leaning down to look at him under the table. The movement is a struggle for her and that’s another thing to feel guilty about. When she’s looking right at him, he gives her a shrug and a rueful look, his words so far away.

“Oh,” Rachel says. “There you are, tateleh. Welcome back.”

“Bucky?” Steve calls through the speakerphone, his voice breaking.

He opens his mouth but can’t seem to move his tongue the right way, is too far from himself to remember how vocal cords work. The urge to close his eyes and slip away is rising in him like a strong tide, but he’s determined to stay present. He’s clawed his way back to being a semi-functioning person over the course of the last year and he refuses to cede that ground just because Steve nearly died for the nine millionth time since they were kids, even if a murder robot was involved.

Instead, he looks for five things to ground himself in this kitchen, in his home and in his body and in his life, just like taught Rachel him. 

One, the cool tile beneath his right hand, the rough edge of the grout. 

Two, the faint smell of onion leftover from the last meal Bucky cooked before they turned the TV on to watch Steve almost die. 

Three, the wedding ring Rachel still wears on her left hand, the simple gold band Beck gave her in the 50s that still looks shiny and new against her weathered finger. 

Four, the  _ B _ he scratched into the underside of the table with a metal fingertip, back when he was spending more time under it than not, when he was terrified every moment of forgetting again, the wood smooth now with how often he’s run his thumb over the curves. 

Five, Steve saying his name, with caution and grief.

Bucky takes a deep breath, presses his thigh into Rachel’s foot and reaches up to run his finger over the B. With his mouth full of marbles and his chest tight, he croaks out, “Hey, pal.”

* * *

Despite all his determination to not let all his progress slip away due to one teeny, tiny, world in danger, murder robot fiasco that he wasn’t even directly involved in, Bucky still spends a good amount of time under the kitchen table over the course of the next few days.

Sam comes over, bringing bagels and lox. He sits at the kitchen table while Bucky eats under it, talking in a low, sad voice to Rachel. He tells her that he’s heartbroken it happened at all, guilty he wasn’t there when it did, and also relieved that he also wasn’t directly involved. 

“This time it’s different,” Sam says. “Before it’s always been us reacting to these horrifying, unbelievable situations, but this is on us. Without the Avengers, this wouldn’t’ve happened at all, and I don’t know how we come back from that.”

As Sam gets ready to head back to Harlem, Rachel tries to give him leftovers, even though there isn’t much in the fridge with Bucky too busy hiding under the table to cook, but Sam manages to convince Rachel that he doesn’t actually need a jar of half eaten jam and she begrudgingly agrees to let him leave empty handed. On his way out the door, Sam ducks under the table to nod at Bucky. “Chin up, Barnes,” he says. “He’ll be home soon.”

Rachel draws the line at allowing Bucky to sleep under the table, so he reluctantly retreats to the bedroom. The thought of getting into bed without Steve makes his skin crawl, so he ends up bringing a pile of blankets and pillows to the closet, settling onto the floor. The ceilings are lower in here, the hanging clothes making the space feel even smaller and more secure.

Eight days after Sokovia, Bucky wakes up in the closet to see Steve frantically tearing apart the bed like he’s searching for something, before he bends down to look under it. All the lights are on in the bedroom, and Bucky blinks the sleep from his eyes.

“Sweetheart?” he mumbles, his voice raspy and thin.

Steve jerks, smacks the back of his head on the bedframe, and says, “Son of a bitch.”

Bucky sits up on his elbows, still trying to figure out why he’s on the floor as Steve scrambles over, collapsing in the narrow space beside Bucky, taking Bucky’s face in his hands.

“Oh,” Bucky says, when he remembers the huge chunk of earth floating so high above the ground, with Steve on it.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, like he’s been saying on every phone call they had since Sokovia. He’s shaking and Bucky frowns at him, further alarmed to get his hand over Steve’s heart, only to feel it fluttering in his chest.

“Did something else happen? What’s wrong?”

Steve shakes his head. “No. Nothing. Sorry. You just weren’t in bed, weren’t anywhere, and I just got a little worried for a second there.”

“Why?”

“Thought you left.”

Bucky snorts out a laugh, holding Steve close and running his fingers through his hair. “Where the hell would I go?”

“I dunno.” Steve sounds so small. “Bucharest?”

All Bucky’s contingency plans to flee across the ocean seem very far away, unfathomable now that he knows what it’s like to have a home again. “I’m right where I want to be,” he tells Steve, never meaning anything more.

They sit like that for awhile, half upright and awkward on the closet floor. Steve turns into a dead weight at Bucky’s side, big body finally going limp with exhaustion. If he’s slept more than ten hours in the last eight days, Bucky’d be shocked. 

“Can we go to bed?” he murmurs into Bucky’s neck.

With Steve here, the ceiling in their room isn’t too high to sleep under. The bed will be full and warm, and in the morning, Bucky will wake before the alarm and let Steve sleep in, as long as he needs to.

* * *

Four days later, and Bucky finally finds the words to talk about it. They’ve been lounging around the apartment and sticking close to each other, avoiding all serious topics and staying far away from anything Sokovia-related, despite Rachel’s watchful and increasingly wary eye.

Now, he presses close to Steve’s side on the couch, ignoring some old movie on the TV while Rachel snores away in her chair. He whispers, “Something’s gotta change, Stevie. I don’t want to do this again.”

“I know, Buck.” Steve closes his eyes, tips his head sideways, and rests with his cheek against Bucky’s temple. “I know.”

It only takes another week after that for Steve to announce his plan, promising to ease back into a more training and strategic role with the team, rather than a combat one, focusing on how the Avengers can better function in this post-Sokovia world with all these super-people coming out of the woodwork every other day. Tony Stark is even going to build some compound for the Avengers outside the city to help Steve do it.

“Okay,” Bucky says, when Steve gives him all the details. He’s deeply skeptical of Steve’s long term ability to stay out of the fray, but he recognizes that Steve’s trying and jumps all over the compromise. “That’s good. You work on how to save the world from a distance and I’ll work on going outside three times a week.”

“It’s important to have goals,” Steve agrees.

* * *

One morning Steve abandons a perfectly lovely breakfast on the balcony to take a phone call. Rachel barely notices, continuing to tell the familiar story of that time she met the fella who now runs her company, when he was just a kid living on the streets in the 70s. Mel’s coming over for dinner tomorrow night, along with Mia and Olive. It’s the first time they’re having people in the apartment who think the man living with Rachel is just Bob. 

Steve helped him come up with a backstory for Bob the Writer. Rachel’s promised that if she slips up and says Bucky’s name instead of Bob’s, she won’t be offended when they play it off as dementia. Bucky’s going to wear his mask. 

It’s a big step. 

Rachel’s having a good memory day, smiling and beautiful, as sharp as she was in 1939. Bucky’s particularly proud of the charcuterie he’s laid out for this meal, as it required multiple trips to tiny specialty stores all over Brooklyn to assemble. The sun is shining and the breeze is refreshing. It should be as close to a perfect morning as anyone is going to get around here, but Bucky watches Steve pace around inside as he whispers into his phone, and all the fresh squeezed orange juice Bucky indulged in this morning curdles in his stomach.

Months after Sokovia, they’ve finally settled back into a routine. Bucky leaves the apartment at least three days a week. Steve spends his days at The Tower strategizing or with Tony Stark out at the half constructed Avengers compound or doing PR approved charity work, but he’s only gone on weekdays, never leaving before breakfast and always making it home before dinner.

It’s a tentative peace, and even though Steve’s constant presence and staunch promises to stop with the superheroing are comforting, Bucky’s waiting on borrowed time for the situation that will break Steve’s resolve. 

Eventually, something world ending will crop up - be it aliens or Nazis or something that manages to be worse - and Steve will have to fight. Bucky wouldn’t ask him not to. Cutting back on the non-critical missions is a good compromise for now, but Bucky remains unsure of how long Steve will manage it. 

Through the window panes in the French double doors, Bucky watches Steve pace around the living room, nod, and then hang up the phone. He breathes deep, squares his shoulders, and strengthens his resolve before marching back out onto the patio.

“I have to tell you something,” Steve announces.

And there it is.

Despite all this trips outside and his newfound ability to let strangers in, Bucky’s recovery is fragile. Steve saying _ I gotta tell you something  _ should not spell doom and gloom - even if he’s standing before Bucky, looking guilty as sin, hands stuffed so far into his pockets he looks like he’s trying to crawl into them and disappear - but Bucky sits in his chair and has a mild freak-out over it anyway.

The memory box in Bucky’s head rattles, an ominous little reminder that Bucky’s whole new life is built on quicksand, and he breathes through it.

“Oh no,” Rachel says. She tips her huge sunglasses down her nose and looks up at Steve from behind them, as she tuts. “What happened  _ now _ ?”

Bucky feels her weary question all the way down to his ancient bones.

Before them, Steve starts pacing the length of the balcony. The sunlight is strong today; spring is breaking and the world around them thawing. Bucky’s still wrapped in one too many layers, but with the weather downright balmy he doesn’t fret over Steve in his thin, too tight t-shirt.

Given the tension in Steve’s shoulders, and the way he keeps messing with his hair, Bucky figures he’ll have much bigger things to fret over, any minute now.

“Bubbleh,” Rachel says and Steve stops placing. He leans back against the railing and digs the palms of his hands into his eyes.

“So there's this girl.” And he leaves it at that, biting his lip, apparently at a loss for how to continue.

Bucky has a momentary flashback to a visceral ache in his chest, when Steve said that same thing about Rachel Rosenbaum a hundred years ago and those few days when Bucky was so sick over Steve having a sweetheart that he could barely function, the dread that lingered right up until Steve said,  _ “She is pretty queer _ .”

Bucky shakes off the echo of that old fear, secure enough in this fractured life he’s cobbled together with Steve to know that he’s probably not about to get tossed over for some dame.

“A girl?” Rachel asks, flapping her hand in Steve direction as she urges him to continue.

Steve huffs out a breath. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“How about with her name?” Rachel suggests.

Steve takes another deep breath and says, “Wanda.”

* * *

Bucky knows five things about the girl before she comes to live with them.

  1. Her name is Wanda Maximoff.
  2. She is seventeen.
  3. Her twin brother died in the fucked-up murder robot fiasco, trying to evacuate people from that floating Sokovian city.
  4. Most of her youth was spent locked up in a Hydra dungeon, strapped to their experimentation tables, or out there murdering people on their orders.
  5. She’s got freaky mind control and mind reading abilities that allow her to put visions in peoples’ heads and had her knowing about Bucky from the first moment she met Steve, because she picked out Steve’s thoughts of home easy as anything. There is also some sort of telekinetic thing that Bucky does not even pretend to understand.



The argument, after Steve explains who she is and how the Avengers found her and why living alone at The Tower has been no good for her, goes like this:

“She’s a child,” Rachel says.

“She pulled all my secrets from Steve’s head,” Bucky counters. “She’s a mind reader. A brainwasher, could make any of us do anything.”

“She’s a child who’s lost everything. Who’s been beaten and broken, by the same people who hurt you, and this is a home for children in need.”

“She can shoot laser beams from her eyes!” Bucky says, knowing full well that it’s not an accurate description of her powers but beyond caring about the specifics of all she can do. It’s too much and she’s too powerful. 

“She’s Jewish,” counters Rachel, turning to frown at Steve where he’s got his arms crossed over his chest, linger by the fireplace and staying out of the fray. “What, do these Nazis go out of their way to find Jewish super people to mind control?”

Steve shrugs. “Probably.”

They go back and forth like that for awhile - Rachel measured and reasonable, Bucky fucking terrified and covering it up with bluster - until he spits out a final, pathetic, juvenile argument. “Is she even queer?” he demands and the look Rachel gives him is so disappointed, Bucky wants to crawl under the table.

“If you can give me one reason for her not to move in that is not entirely selfish, then I’ll listen,” Rachel says, leaning back in her chair, drumming her fingernails on the armrest as she waits. “She’s been living in Stark Tower for  _ months _ . That’s not a home. It’s a photo shoot from an interior design magazine and Tony Stark’s playground combined.”

Bucky nearly lies, almost says that having this kid around will bad for his recovery and mental health. He’s got a list of all the things that will push Rachel’s buttons and have her prioritize his comfort over some kid’s wellbeing, and Rachel stares him down like she knows it.

They both turn to look at Steve but he’s got nothing else to say. He thinks Wanda would do well here and claims to trust her, but also understands why it would be hard for Bucky to have someone with her set of abilities living in their home.

But this is a home, the apartment for Bucky, Steve, and Rachel, and downstairs for a bunch of kids who have no where else safe to go. It’s the same thing this kid needs, even with her ridiculous super powers. She needs a home. And there is no one better than Rachel to give it to her.

Steve trusts her. Rachel wants her. Bucky’s possessive, protective instincts over his home and his people can accomodate one more.

“We’ve gotta start calling this place Rachel Barnes Home for Wayward Super People,” he says instead.

* * *

Wanda arrives from Stark Tower with a backpack over her shoulder, containing everything she owns in the world. Despite the warm weather, she shows up in a gray sweatshirt, hood up and sleeves pulled over her hands. She sticks close to Steve as the four of them loiter by the front door, Rachel holding onto Bucky’s arm to keep herself upright, Bucky trying not to scowl, and Steve with his hands deep in his pockets.

“Uh,” Steve says. “Wanda, this is Bucky and Rachel. ‘Bout time you formally met them. Probably feels like you know them already, huh? From your little trip into my head that one time?”

Steve says it like a joke, but it makes Wanda wince, Bucky scowl, and Rachel sigh, murmuring, “Oh, bubbeleh.”

“Sorry,” Steve says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He glances from Wanda to Bucky, then back again, nervous and ridiculous in that Steve-way that Bucky always finds so endearing. The awkward way he bumbles through tense social interaction somehow did not make it into the Captain America myth. “Sorry, that was just-- Oh, jesus christ.”

Bucky would let Steve flail around for the rest of time for the entertainment value alone, but Rachel takes pity on him, stepping forward on shaky knees and extending a hand towards the kid. 

“Hello, Wanda,” Rachel says as she cautiously takes her hand. “I’m Rachel, Steve’s fiance, and this is Bucky, Steve’s husband.”

Bucky barks out a laugh as Steve turns a lovely shade of pink. Wanda actually cracks a smile, something Bucky didn’t know was possible given the morose mask she’s been wearing since she stepped through their front door.

“See,” Wanda says, her voice accented enough to take Bucky right back to Eastern Europe. And the rush of familiarity isn’t great, but it’s bearable, the chained up memories in his head barely rattling in response. “That is the way you make a joke during an awkward introduction. Take notes, Cap.” She elbows Steve in the side, practiced, at ease, and for the first time, Bucky thinks this little arrangement might work out. “And I promise, no non-consensual mind reading. I understand now that it is quite rude.”

“What a delight you are,” Rachel says, downright gleeful. She moves away from Bucky, linking her arm with Wanda’s instead. “Come, let me show you your room. We even took out all the gym equipment and had the windows open, so it won’t even smell like sweaty super soldier.”

They totter off together down the hall towards the bedrooms and Steve sighs, moving closer to Bucky and ducking down to rest his forehead against Bucky’s shoulder.

“Real smooth there, sweetheart,” Bucky murmurs, running his fingers through Steve’s hair.

“It turned out ok.”

“No thanks to you.”

* * *

Bucky can’t sleep that first night, kneely aware of the strange and potentially dangerous person in his home. He’s hyper attuned to any sounds coming from the hallway, in case Wanda Maximoff decides to sneak out in the middle of the night and use her freaky super powers to hurt Rachel.

“Buck,” Steve mutters against his neck sometime after midnight. He presses closer along Bucky’s back, fingers finding skin under all the layers he’s wearing and splaying out against his ribs. “You gotta relax.”

“I’m relaxed.”

Steve snorts. “I know we’re on a trial basis with her being here, but if you can’t manage to sleep with her in the apartment it’s not going to work.”

“I’m sleeping.”

“Wow, this is an awfully coherent conversation given that you are apparently sleep talking.”

“Do you think she’s reading our minds right now?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I trust her.”

Bucky sighs, turning in Steve’s arms to face him. He squints at him in the dark, sees how tired he is and knows he should let him sleep, but Bucky’s got to hear it. At least once more.

“Tell me again,” Bucky says. “Why you trust her. Why she needs to be here. Tell me again.”

Steve shifts, stretches out one arm for Bucky to rest his head on, the other digging beneath Bucky’s layers until he finds skin again, this time at Bucky’s hip. 

“She’s only seventeen.” Steve starts, and Bucky’s got this spiel memorized now, but the conviction in Steve’s voice is reassuring. “And despite everything she’s been through, she fought with us at the end. She saved people. And after, when she lost her brother, lost the only thing she loved in the world, instead of disappearing or auctioning off use of her powers to the highest bidder, she chose to come with us. She wants to do good in this world. She wants a family, Bucky, more than anything, and that’s why I trust her when she promises to stay out of our heads. I can’t think of a better place for her.”

“It doesn’t seem like she’s cooking up any nefarious schemes,” Bucky admits. 

Steve leans forward to kiss his cheeks and settles back down against his pillow, closing his eyes. If Bucky shuts up now, Steve will probably fall asleep in a matter of seconds.

“Do you think she’ll like pancakes for breakfast?” Bucky whispers.

Steve cracks a smile and squeezes Bucky’s hip. “I bet she will. You make a helluva pancake, Buck.”

* * *

The kid is quiet. She keeps to herself and spends too much time in her room, although she always emerges in the morning for breakfast and in the evenings for dinner with the family, one of the rules Rachel laid out for Wanda when she moved in, along with no mind reading/control and taking your shoes off at the front door. 

A couple times a week, she goes into the city to train with the Avengers or to work with her tutor, but she’s taken to playing nightly games of chess with Steve. Or knitting with Rachel. 

Bucky is still circling the kid, wary. There’s a massive, Hydra shaped elephant in the room, filling up all the space between them. He considers broaching the subject, saying,  _ “Hey, kid, anytime you need to talk about the bullshit Hydra did to you, I’m here,” _ but he can’t take that risk. 

Despite his goals to finally delve into the lockbox of memories in his head, his first little foray into healing can’t be with a kid who has her own trauma to deal with. It could very well end badly for both of them, and Bucky’s not going to risk Wanda, who seems to bloom a little more each day, under Rachel’s steady, doting attention and Steve’s gentle, brotherly ribbing.

She regards Bucky with equal wariness and skepticism. Maybe it’s a Hydra thing, the two of them knowing better than anyone what the other is capable of. 

Maybe Wanda looked into Steve’s head, before she promised not too, and saw them up on that helicarrier, watched Bucky beating Steve within an inch of his life, and she doesn’t trust Bucky with Steve because of it. 

It’s Wanda’s obvious love for Steve that finally has Bucky relaxing around her. Bucky finds the way she sticks close to Steve’s side and hangs on his every word so goddamn endearing that he starts going out of his way to laugh along with her when she’s teasing Steve and makes a big show of wearing the first misshapen scarf she knits. 

Every day, she seems to spend a little less time in her room, emerging when Bucky starts putting together a meal instead of coming out when the cooking’s done.

Rachel sits at the table, teary-eyed and beaming, when Bucky offers to teach Wanda how to make matzo ball soup and she readily agrees, tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth as she concentrates on shaping the matzo meal mix into balls.

Wanda living with them is going about a thousand times better than Bucky anticipated, but he’s still got no fucking clue how to handle it when he comes home from teaching a piano lesson for Tam downstairs to the sound of crying.

Steve’s out of the city, walking the half-completed construction zone with Tony Stark for the Avengers new headquarters. Rachel’s playing bridge at the local community center with a bunch of other old people. There’s just Wanda at home, crying her little heart out somewhere in the apartment, and Bucky, woefully incapable of dealing with it.

“Wanda?” he calls out, toeing off his shoes by the front door and slowly shuffling towards the living room. He doesn’t see her anywhere, but that’s the direction the crying’s coming from and Bucky knows better than anyone that it’s damn easy to hide among all those big couches and easy chairs.

The crying cuts off, and Wanda says, “I’m fine,” through a hiccup. There is a brief beat of silence and then the crying starts up again, double time.

“I’m coming in there, okay?” Bucky says, still moving slowly, cautiously. For once he doesn’t feel directly responsible for these tears, so he has no urge to flee the scene. 

“Okay,” she whispers, voice ragged and quiet.

Wanda’s hiding in the same spot Bucky once did, the first time Steve’s friends came to the apartment, down between the couch and the side table, her legs pulled up tight to her chest and knees tucked under her chin. Her usual dramatic, black outfits - shawls and long sleeves that hide her hands - make her appear bigger and bolder than your average teenager, but like this she looks small.

She startles when he kneels down, and her surprise doesn’t make sense given the loud way he announced his presence, until he remembers that he’s still got his Bob face on. 

Fumbling with the edge, he gets the nano mask off and Wanda lets out a breath when his real face appears, slumping back against the wall.

“Where were you?” she murmurs, wiping at her eyes.

“Downstairs.” Bucky stretches out and gets comfortable on the floor. It doesn’t look like Wanda has any plans to come out any time soon. “I teach a few kids piano lessons a couple times a week.”

“You play piano?”

“Yeah, a long lost skill that recently came back to me.”

“Would you teach me?” Wanda asks and Bucky’s not surprised. Now that Wanda has the room to be her own person, it’s like she wants to try everything, cooking and knitting and chess, to figure out who she is and what she likes. 

“Gotta clear it with the ladies that run the place, but I don’t see why not.”

Wanda nods at him, hides her face in her knees, and starts sobbing again. Helpless to do anything but stick close, he watches her cry, her lanky limbs shaking as she lets out all that agony. Bucky considers touching her, reaching for her hand like Rachel would or getting an arm around her like Steve’s go-to move, but he’s not great with touching. Doesn’t know if he could handle it even if Wanda wanted it.

Eventually she calms down, starts hiccuping again rather than sobbing. “My brother died,” she whispers and it’s the first time she’s talked about anything that happened before the Avengers brought her to New York.

“Yeah,” Bucky replies. “I know. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“I miss him.”

“Of course you do.”

“I keep thinking that it will hurt less.” Wanda lifts her head and gives him a rueful smile. Her big dark eyes look so like Rachel’s and he hates seeing them so wet and miserable. “But it comes in waves. I forget he’s gone. We only had each other for so long and now I wake in the morning, reach out to him with my mind like I always used to, and it’s like he’s dying all over again, when I cannot find him.”

Bucky winces, thinking of Rebecca and how strange and sad it is to ache for someone he only half remembers. Rebecca’s presence is still alive in the apartment, between how frequently Rachel talks about her, her pictures hanging on the walls and her books lining the shelves, but Bucky doubts Wanda’s got a single thing left of her brother.

Wanda lost him right when they were both finally breaking free of Hydra. Bucky wonders if she feels guilty for every new thing she learns, every moment of freedom she has, every time she laughs, because her brother died before he could experience any of it.

“It’s not going to hurt less,” Bucky says, keenly aware that it might be the wrong thing to say. Rachel would be so much better at this, and so would Steve, but Bucky’s the only one here. “Not at all. But you’ll learn to live with it. You’ll be able to smile when you think about him sometimes, without it feeling like your heart’s getting ripped right outta your chest.”

Something in there must have been okay, because Wanda nods and wipes her nose on her sleeve. She takes a shuddering breath and then another. “Your sister died.”

“Yeah.”

“And you miss her still? Think of her still?”

“Every goddamn minute.”

Wanda smiles for her. Stretches out her legs, crossing them at the ankle. “I’ll tell you about mine if you tell me about yours.”

They talk about their dead siblings until Steve brings Rachel home. Bucky learns that Pietro Maximoff could think as fast as he could run and considered knock knock jokes to be the pinnacle of comedy. Wanda laughs when Bucky tells her about the time Beck almost got beaned with a fly ball at Ebbets Field because she insisted on reading her way through a Dodgers game.

Steve met the kid, Pietro. Later, when they’re alone, Bucky’s going to ask if he can draw his face from memory. So Wanda will have something of him to hold onto, besides her memories.

* * *

“I told you so,” Steve says, beaming at him through the mirror in their bathroom as Bucky brushes his teeth. He’s freshly out of the shower, his hair combed back with his bangs already falling down onto his forehead like it’s 1939. Even though he’s all ready for bed, could be crawling under the covers as they speak, he’s leaning against the counter at Bucky’s side in nothing but a pair of red, white, and blue boxer briefs. He’s been strutting around their bedroom half naked more often lately. Bucky wonders if its because Steve’s noticed that Bucky’s been noticing him more, eyes frequently lingering over his capable hands and strong shoulders.

Steve, in any form, is the most attractive thing Bucky’s ever seen, even when he’s grinning like a self-satisfied jackass while Bucky tries to get his teeth clean.

He spits in the sink, rinses his mouth, and says, “Yeah, yeah.”

“She’s a great kid,” Steve continues, trailing after Bucky as he moves towards the bedroom. “I told you it’d be good for all of us, having her here.”

“You’re the smartest superhero in all the land,” Bucky agrees, voice thick with sarcasm, even if there’s no denying that Wanda’s been a good addition to their weird little family. She’s taken to spending as much time with Bucky - either at home or on his still stressful ventures outside - as she does training with Steve. 

They crawl under the covers and Steve looks like he’s going to keep bragging about how brilliant he is, so Bucky shuts him up with a kiss.

* * *

There are too many people in his kitchen. 

Bucky actually likes it when Rachel sits at the table backseat cooking, when Steve flutters around touching Bucky excessively in a blatant ploy to distract him long enough for Steve to filch food, or when Wanda sticks close to his shoulder, watching avidly as he sautés or stirs, but the three of them all in here together while Bucky’s trying to get dinner on the table is a bit much.

He tolerates it while they are gabbing away over a bottle of wine at the table. It’s noisy, but the familiar babble of all their voices is somewhat comforting. When Wanda and Steve start talking about the training they’ve been doing, where Steve and his pals have been taking Wanda’s well-honed combat skills and teaching her strategy, teaching her how to rely on her fists or her mind instead of just her powers, it gets harder. 

Despite Wanda’s obvious enthusiasm for the training, and how much he trusts Steve never to use anyone like a weapon, Bucky doesn’t like it. If Bucky had his way, Wanda would never partake in anything life threatening again, but she’s determined to fight with the good guys, after so many years killing people for the bad.

The general consensus seems to be that Wanda is old enough to make her own decisions and if she’s determined to be an Avenger, then Steve will damn will make certain that she’s prepared for anything that comes her way.

Wanda is terrible at the piano and a mediocre cook, but Bucky thinks these are both better options for her future career than becoming a fucking superhero.

Since Tony Stark’s fancy new Avengers facility was completed, there’s been a lot more training and Bucky can feel it acutely, the storm approaching, the end of their fragile peace, be it aliens or Nazi or alien Nazis or maybe some massive godzilla-esque monster that manages also to be a fascist creature from outer space as well as a murder robot. Anything is possible, in the 21st century. 

Just hearing them talk about their training now has Bucky’s skin prickling and his stomach churning. He’s making a stroganoff, and the delicate mushrooms in his sauce get pretty well pulverized as he stirs with too much of his super-soldier strength.

When both Steve and Wanda get up to demonstrate some move for Rachel right there in Bucky’s kitchen while he’s trying to make dinner, that’s the final fucking straw. He turns off all the burners, meal left half cooked on the stove, and walks calmly to the bedroom. 

Sitting in the center of their bed with his legs crossed beneath him, Bucky closes his eyes and tries to breathe, tries to forget the sound of Wanda’s fist hitting Steve’s open palm. 

The box in his head rattles, just as threatening and looming as ever, even though he’s gotten truly masterful at ignoring its existence in the months since Sokovia. Moments like this, when just the hint of violence - just the sound of a fist smacking into an open palm, no bones snapping or blood spurting or guns firing - makes his skin crawl, his stomach flip. It’s an unpleasant reminder that his recovery is on shaky ground and he’s still got no fucking clue how to pop the top on all those memories without it killing him.

Steve turns up less than thirty seconds later. He knocks twice on the door, even as he opens it and comes inside. “Bucky?” he whispers.

Bucky sighs, scrubs both his hands over his face, and collapses back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling even as Steve moves closer, closing the bedroom door behind him. The mattress dips as Steve sits.

“That was stupid,” Steve says.

Bucky turns his head to frown at Steve. Although Bucky agrees that leaving the kitchen over something so minor was definitely a dramatic and stupid reaction, somehow he doubts that’s what Steve’s getting at. 

“I know you don’t like people messing with the kitchen, or all the training I’ve been doing with Wanda, or anything even a little violent, and I just went and did all three at once,” Steve continues, grimacing. “Sorry, honey.”

“Yeah, we should institute a no-Avengers-talk-in-the-kitchen rule,” Bucky says.

“And no training in the apartment.”

“You could just stop with the training altogether,” Bucky mutters, because he can’t help himself. They’ve had this argument before, discussed it through to the end, and while Bucky might begrudgingly agree that Wanda’s got to make her own decisions, he sure as shit doesn’t like it.

“Buck--” Steve starts, tone gently placating and thoroughly infuriating.

“I know!” Bucky sits up, hand flailing around his head as he huffs in frustration. “If she’s determined to do the superhero thing you are determined to make sure she’s got all the skills to not die immediately. And, yeah, she’s a kid who’s killed a whole lot of people at the hands of Hydra, and if part of the way she wants to deal with that is by helping people instead, who are we to say she can’t? Yada, yada, yada.”

“I understand why you don’t like it,” Steve says, reaching out to squeeze Bucky’s shoulder.

“She doesn’t owe anyone anything,” Bucky insists. “And neither do you.”

Steve’s quiet for a long time, frowning and thinking. They’ve argued about Wanda a time or two, but Bucky’s never taken it a step farther, never brought Steve into the equation.  

“I’ve cut back,” Steve says, a defensive edge to his tone.

“I know you have.”

“Natasha and Sam are out there tracking Rumlow as we speak,” he says, and that’s news to Bucky. Not once has the name  _ Rumlow _ been uttered while Bucky’s been in earshot and before this moment he had no memories of the guy, but Steve says the name now and it’s like Bucky never forgot him. 

Rumlow wasn’t assigned to the Winter Soldier team for long, but it was enough to leave an impression, despite all the mind erasing Bucky went through at the end there. Steve has the files, he’s got to know enough of what Rumlow did to Bucky, when Pierce wasn’t in the mood to break a sweat and punish Bucky himself. 

And the way Steve spits out the name, the fury and familiarity in his tone, makes Bucky think that this isn’t just another faceless Hydra goon but someone Steve knew, once upon a time. Someone he might even have trusted. 

This is personal, and Bucky is genuinely shocked that Steve’s managed to stay out of it for this long, especially if Natasha and Sam are currently on the ground, doing the job without him. 

“They’re out there looking for someone who hurt you,” Steve whispers. “But I’m not. I’m here, because you need me to be.”

Bucky frowns and doesn’t know how to make Steve understand that it’s what he needs for himself, too. And sure, Bucky could use some psychiatric attention, but so could Steve, with his nightmares that somehow manage to outpace even Bucky’s and his singular unwillingness to put his own wellbeing first in any situation. He’s got a hero complex a mile wide and still hasn’t forgiven himself for so many things that weren’t this fault, from Bucky’s fall to Hydra’s rise.

But for now, if Steve needs to tell himself that it’s all for Bucky, then Bucky will just have to live with it.

Abruptly, Bucky leans over to give Steve a gentle, lingering kiss. “Thank you,” he murmurs against Steve’s mouth, sticking close enough to feel Steve shudder. 

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” Steve replies.

Bucky kisses Steve once more and then stands up. “If I can’t salvage dinner, you are ordering pizza.”

Steve slings an arm around Bucky’s shoulders, leading him out of the bedroom. “Deal.”

* * *

Near the end of summer, they celebrate Wanda’s birthday. What with the years of torture, brainwashing, and living in a Hydra cell, she can’t remember a specific date beyond mid-August and when she frets over this fact, Rachel simply says, “Pick a date, any date, and that’s your birthday.”

Wanda goes with the 18th because Pietro liked the number, remembered enough of their Jewish education from before Hydra to have a lingering affinity for it. 

They have a little gathering. Wanda is missing her brother too much to really celebrate, but she lets Bucky cook her favorite foods and lets Rachel invite Sam, Natasha, and Clint.

After they eat, Clint gets some kind of card game going in the living room, but Bucky slips out onto the balcony for a cigarette. He’s not surprised when Natasha joins him. 

“How goes the Rumlow hunting?” Bucky asks, tossing Natasha his pack and lighter. She likes to light a cigarette, take a puff or two, and then just hold the thing until it burns out, as if she enjoys the feel of it between her fingers more than the smoking itself.

Natasha grins around a cigarette as she gets it lit. “Do you really want to know?”

Laughing, Bucky shakes his head. “I really fucking do not.”

“There’s not much to tell anyway,” Natasha says. “We were on the road for a month, and the trail went cold.”

“Bummer,” Bucky says, clearly not meaning it.

Natasha lets a thin trail of smoke leak out the seam between her closed lips as she rolls her eyes at him. Her company has grown on him, over the last few months, but being around her still can feel like he’s haunted by both their ghosts. He appreciates her ability to just hang out near him in silence, quiet but no longer awkward.

But this also means that when she does speak, it’s important. 

“Although,” she says, tilting her body toward him silently and Bucky straightens up, pays attention, looks at the cluster of freckles below her right eye to fake like he’s making eye contact. “In between all that failed tracking, I did manage to vet a therapist for Wanda.”

Bucky continues to stare at her freckles, unable to truly understand what she’s telling him.

“You know, since she is a traumatized former captive of a fascist organization who was forced to kill people and recently lost her twin brother?” Natasha leans back against the railing of the balcony and waves her cigarette around, trailing elegant swirls of smoke. 

“Right,” Bucky replies, ashamed that with all the thought he’s given his own fucked-up head recently, it didn’t dawn on him to figure out if Wanda could use some similar help.

“It’s a woman I’ve known for awhile,” Natasha continues. “And I thought she would be a good fit for a long time, but you never know who is a Nazi these days, so I had to do some digging. Recently, she’s apparently been focusing on helping people raised in some really intense cults work through all the weird bullshit they were indoctrinated with. Believe it or not, I think that’s closer to what Wanda went through than being a POW.”

“Huh,” Bucky says, watching her intently, cigarette neglected at his side.

“It got me thinking that she might be a good resource for you, too.”

Bucky snorts at this, because despite his willingness to take his recovery to the next level, he still doesn’t see how it could possibly work. What could he say that wouldn’t give away his identity? Coming out of hiding, turning himself into the authorities, and possibly giving up Steve and Rachel as accomplices who aided and abetted the goddamn Winter Soldier are things he is still absolutely unwilling to do.

“I mean, if Dr. Cho turns out to be a good fit for Wanda, she’s going to know there are parts of Wanda’s story that are classified, that she just can’t share. And there’s no reason we can’t give her the same story about you. We can say, this is Bob, he was also pulled out of a Hydra lab during the Ultron ordeal. You could talk about the Winter Soldier stuff without saying Winter Soldier and it would basically be the same.”

“Huh,” Bucky says, because that’s not a terrible plan. There is a certain amount of lying and withholding he’d have to do, but it’s as close as he could get to professional help without letting yet another person in on his whereabouts for the last year.

“Think about it,” Natasha says, putting out her cigarette in the dirt of a planter before tucking the butt in her pocket. When she moves to go inside, Bucky reaches out, grabbing her by the elbow to stop her, just touches her without thinking.

They stare at his hand on her arm for a minute, both equally shocked, as Bucky’s aversion to touching anyone but two very specific people is well known. Natasha cracks a smile and Bucky flushes with embarrassment, clearing his throat as he removes his hand as casually as possible. He sticks it in his hoodie pocket and resists the urge to wipe off his fingers like he’s a kid still convinced that girls have cooties.

“Did you talk to someone when SHIELD brought you in?” he asks.

Natasha smiles again, but it’s sad this time. “Yeah, a few. It took me years to find someone that fit, though, and to admit I needed the help at all. Before, I thought I’d just power my way through it.”

“And it helped?”

“It saved my life.”

“Huh,” Bucky says again. “Who’d you talk to?”

“A SHIELD doctor.”

“Hydra?”

Natasha’s shaking her head before Bucky even gets the word all the way out. “No. As far as we can tell, Hydra put a bullet in his head while Steve and I were on the run. Trying to get information on me, is the theory.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah.” Natasha moves towards the doors again, and this time Bucky lets her go. “Hey,” she calls over her shoulder. “I’ve got someone in mind for Steve too, if you can ever talk him into it.”

Bucky snorts and lifts his cigarette to his mouth. “Lets focus on one impossible thing at a time there, Natalia.”

* * *

At Wanda’s request, they all attend services for Rosh Hashanah, even Steve, who looks beautiful in a fine grey suit, his hair sticking up uncooperatively around his yarmulka. Bucky’s only been to temple a handful of times, to pick up Rachel from some event and get fawned over by all her old lady friends, but Wanda’s been going every Saturday since the summer.

The morning services take place in the church next door to the temple, a fact that puzzles Bucky until Rachel explains that the number of attendees for the High Holy Days about quadruple what they are for your average Saturday.

“Aw,” says Steve, from his spot in the pew, tucked between Rachel and Wanda. His presence has officially been noted, people walking extra slowly by them to sneak glances at Captain America. Although all the pews around them are packed, no one is yet daring to slide in next to them. “I was kinda hoping to never be in a church ever again.”

“There will be no latin,” Rachel says, patting his shoulder. “That’s a promise. And Abraham Lincoln once sat in the 89th row.”

“Get outta town,” Steve says, craning his neck to get a look at said pew while Wanda ducks down, looking faintly embarrassed at Captain America’s antics.

A thousand years ago, Bucky struggled to stay awake through similar services, seated between an equally bored Beck and a grandmother he’s got next to no memories of. As a kid, he figured he’s suffer through church for his mother and the High Holy Days for his father, but he can’t remember getting a damn thing out of any of it. 

The prayers make him miss his tateh in a way he hasn’t yet.

After worship wraps up, everyone walks the few blocks to Fulton Ferry Landing in a slow  procession. Bucky carries Rachel’s chair, just in case, but she makes it to the river, clutching Steve’s arm. A few feet ahead of them, Wanda talks with a few kids her own age, friends she’s made by going with Rachel to temple every Saturday morning.

This park remains one of Bucky’s most frequented locations, on his many journeys outside the safety of the apartment. The Brooklyn Bridge is as impressive as Bucky’s remembers and the view of Manhattan across the river might have changed drastically since he hung around here as a kid, but the feeling is the same, that New York City rhythm that he’s still got down deep in his bones. Like this city still belongs to him.

Together, the group says the Tashlich prayers and Bucky remembers his bubbe muttering these same words. He liked the sounds, even if the meaning of each word was beyond him, and the dissonance of understanding the Hebrew is strange now. 

The sensation rolls in his head, building into a headache, and Steve notices Bucky struggle, reaches down to squeeze his wrist in the cover of the crowd. The contact helps. The headache passes.

A basket full of breadcrumbs makes its way through the crowd. Steve’s brow furrows in confusion as he takes a few and Rachel smiles at him, patting his arm as she says, “This way.”

The four of them walk a little ways down the river, putting some distance between them and the other groups moving towards the shore.

Rachel gathers them all close in a little huddle, calling the play like Steve used to with the Howlies. Shaking her handful of breadcrumbs, she says, “Now we send our transgressions out into the waters of the East River.”

Bucky eyes her dubiously, failing to see how breadcrumbs could possibly be a stand in for transgressions on the scale of those the Winter Soldier committed, but Wanda seems to be getting something out of it. She closes her eyes, silently murmurs a prayer, and then hurles her crumbs towards the water with all her considerable strength. They land a good fifty feet out in the river. When she’s done, she’s got a soft smile playing around her mouth.

Steve takes the whole thing very seriously, as if he’s determined to be the best goy to ever celebrate the New Year so he’ll be invited back next time. Jaw clenched in concentration, he tosses his bread gently, the plops audible over the sloshing ebb and flow of the water on the bank.

Rachel drops her handful in the river with no fanfare and then all three of them are looking at Bucky, waiting expectantly. He takes a deep breath, tosses his transgressions into the East River, and he might still think breadcrumbs make a poor stand in, but he feels a little lighter when they walk back to the apartment, Wanda pushing Rachel in her chair with Steve and Bucky walking behind them, the backs of their hands brushing. 

At home, he’s got challa and apples with honey waiting for them, and he might not be up for all the services that Rachel and Wanda plan to attend this week, and certainly not Yom Kippur next weekend: a singular day for atonement seems too small to him when the sheer magnitude of all he’s done is enough to send him back to  just passing out for hours at a time.  

Still, it’s a nice morning. His breadcrumbs are dissolving in the river and he thinks tomorrow he’ll finally have the courage to dial the number Natasha gave him for a doctor that might be able to help him tackle this mess in his head.

* * *

**1941**

Rebecca is sitting on their threadbare couch when Bucky gets home from the refinery, legs tucked under her as she reads by lamp light. A blanket is draped around her shoulders like a shawl, a mug of something hot and steaming cradled in one hand. 

Bucky’s been so busy these last few months - trying to keep Steve alive and working as much as possible to keep their heads above water - that he’s ignored anything that hasn’t been essential to their survival, including Beck. She’s been around, delivering them home cooked meals from Winnie and sitting with Steve when Bucky’s working. 

Now that the threat of Steve’s sickness seems less dire, Bucky takes a moment to just look at his baby sister.

Although she raises her mug in silent greeting as he hangs his keys on the nail by the door, she doesn’t look up from what she’s reading, determined to get to a good stopping point before she’ll focus on anything other than the words on the page.

Right under his nose, she grew up without him noticing. The roundness is gone from her face and her cheekbones are so like his that it’s almost like looking in a mirror, with the low light of the lamp throwing strange shadows. She’s not a kid anymore, but she still refuses to do anything with her hair or paint her face, still steals Bucky’s old clothes and prefers trousers to the dresses their mother only succeeds in getting her into for church.

Ma might have an even harder time marrying Beck off than she’s having with Bucky, and that’s really saying something.

“How was work?” Beck says, marking her place in the book and tossing it on the coffee table.

“Fine,” Bucky says, hanging up his hat and coat. “How is he?”

“Fine,” Beck replies. “Did some sketching after dinner but went to bed early. Still no energy, but that cough is happening less and less.”

Bucky nods, collapsing on the couch next to her and sighing heavily. The terror and stress of the last few months is finally catching up with him. He’s been tired since January, but he was too focused on Steve to notice. Until now.

“There’s a plate of food in the oven,” Beck says, stretching out to wiggle her cold toes under his thigh.

“In a minute,” Bucky says, eyes closed, seriously doubting his ability to get up. He volunteered for overtime every night this week, making sure all the books are up to date for the end of the quarter. Three more days like this, and then he’s got a weekend.

Beck scoffs and he feels her stand, but he doesn’t bother opening his eyes until Beck’s kicking at his shoe, handing him a plate and a fork, and demanding that he eat. It’s good, so Ma must have sent more food. Beck and Steve’s efforts in the kitchen are edible but not enjoyable.

When he’s done, Beck puts the plate on the table next to her book and Bucky lets his head fall back against the cushions, closing his eyes again.

“You want me to stay here tomorrow? I can miss a day of school,” Beck suggests, sounding hopeful.

“You like school,” Bucky reminds her.

“No, I don’t. It’s too easy. I can’t wait to be done with the kid stuff.”

“Just a few more months, and you’re free.”

“Yeah for the summer. Then I’ve got a whole other year until graduation.”

Beck’s been saving up for college since she was twelve. At one point, when Steve was healthy and more commissions were coming in than he could keep up with, Bucky had some fantasy of helping her out, giving her some money to make sure she could study whatever she wanted, instead of what their mother deemed practical and respectable. Last summer, when they had money to spare, seems like a thousand years ago.

“You’ve got someone coming to babysit Steve tomorrow?”

“Shush.” Bucky glances over his shoulder at their closed bedroom door at the other side of the kitchen. “If he hears you calling it that, he’ll throw a fit.”

Steve might be feeling better, but he hasn’t yet noticed - or at least loudly objected to - the parade of people Bucky’s got coming into the apartment during the week to keep an eye on him. That’s a sure a sign as any that Steve isn’t out of the woods quite yet.

“He’s been out for hours,” Beck says, rolling her eyes at Bucky.

“Zelda’s coming in the morning,” Bucky says, still looking over his shoulder. 

Beck nods approvingly, like she always does when Zelda’s name gets mentioned. Zelda’s one of those rare people that can find something in common with just about anybody, and she went out of her way to bond with Beck over books right away. 

“And then Rachel will be here when she’s done at the bar since Zelda’s got a night shift,” Bucky continues, smiling in amusement when Beck’s face scrunches up into a scowl, just like it always does when they talk about Rachel.

“I was gonna come over after school, but you can count me out in that case,” Beck mutters, crossing her arms over her chest and scowling across the room since Rachel herself isn’t here to scowl at.

“I’ll never understand why you hate her,” Bucky says.

Beck shrugs. “She just bugs me, is all.”

“You’re going to have to get used to her eventually, kid.”

Wincing, Beck drops her gaze, studying her hands in her lap. “So she’s going to be around for awhile then?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, having a hard time pulling air into his lungs. The conversation turned serious on him fast, and this is the first time he thought about his New Year’s resolution to make this complicated marriage scheme a reality. It’s a shock to realize he hasn’t lost any resolve since Steve got sick. “She’s going to be around for awhile.”

“They are going to get married then.” Beck’s voice is small and hitching like she’s heartbroken, but Bucky can’t imagine why. She loves Steve, should want the best for him, and from the outside, marrying Rachel Rosenbaum is far better than anything anyone ever thought Steve Rogers would manage.

“It’s looking like it,” Bucky says, feeling brave and reckless and certain. He’ll have to talk to Zelda, as soon as Steve is up and about again.

“Is that what you are waiting for?” Beck asks, cocking her head as she blinks at him. She looks as confused by him as he is by her, like they are having different conversations. Like there is subtext Bucky’s missing. Like he should be as heartbroken as Beck appeared to be a minute ago. “With Zelda? Is that why you haven’t asked her to marry you yet?”

Bucky frowns at her and finally says, “Something like that.”

Beck doesn’t push, just gets up and informs him that she’s sleeping on the couch, promising not to tell Winnie about his plans to propose, for which Bucky is grateful. His ma is unbearable already, and he can’t imagine what she’d be like, if something goes wrong and no one ends up married.

* * *

Something goes wrong. A week later, the bar gets shut down and Sully gets locked up.

Zelda disappears slowly, after that. Comes around less, rarely smiling the few times Rachel manages to drag her over to the apartment for dinner. With the bar gone, this feels like the last safe place in the whole world.

Bucky’s far from surprised when Zelda finally ends it with Rachel in June. Steve is furious and Rachel is shocked, but Bucky understands. When he goes to see Zelda one last time, two days after Rachel showed up pale and drawn on the front stoop of their apartment, too distraught for even a good cry, Bucky doesn’t tell Rachel and he doesn’t tell Steve.

With the excuse of picking up a shift at the garage, he instead meets Zelda outside Central Library, on the northern edge of Prospect Park, just like they’ve done a hundred times before. When he rounds the corner he sees her out front, chewing on her thumbnail. She’s fresh off a shift at the hospital, changed out of her uniform but still wearing her white shoes. She must’ve forgotten to bring another pair to put on with her street clothes.

She sees him a few seconds after he sees her, and just watches him approach, still gnawing away on her nail. When he gets a few feet away, he stops. 

Normally, he’d hug her hello and offer her his arm. He’s gotten used to Zelda on his arm.

Instead he just sticks his hands in his pockets, as deep as they’ll go, and flails for something to say. She looks awful, dark bags under bloodshot eyes, and under any other circumstances he’d ask her if she’s alright and maybe buy her an egg cream.

But back home, curled up on their couch like she’s in too much pain to so much as sit up, Rachel looks worse.

Zelda takes a deep breath and says, “How is she?”

Bucky winces. He’s glad, in some backwards way, that Zelda’s suffering too, and that Rachel’s her first concern, but he also hates her a little bit for leaving.

“She’s…” Bucky bites the inside of his cheek, and doesn’t know how to answer without betraying Rachel’s confidence. “Well, it’s been a pretty rough summer.”

Zelda laughs, the sound wet and hysterical. “It’s been a pretty rough  _ year _ . And we’re only half way through it.”

Bucky nods. 1941 can go straight to hell, as far as he’s concerned.

“Is she eating?” Zelda wrings her hands. “Sleeping? I hope she’s staying with you. God, I hate that she’s all on her own, rattling around in that room above Frank’s. You’re making sure she’s taking care of herself and getting to work on time? Not staying in bed all day?”

“Zelda,” he murmurs, trying to be as gentle as possible. “I understand why you did it, I really do. But Rachel and how she’s doing, that’s not exactly your business, not any more.”

Zelda’s lip quivers, her eyes welling with tears, and Bucky’s not sure he’s seen anyone cry so pretty before, not even Rachel. And he’s seen Rachel cry far too many times, since Sully got taken away.

“Oh,” whisper Zelda, her breathing ragged. She covers her mouth with both hands and shudders.

When Bucky left the apartment Rachel was just staring at the ceiling, still wearing one of his old shirts and not even bothering to gussy up. He’d never seen her without a full face of makeup before, and without those red lips she looks so young. 

He reaches out for Zelda even though he knows better, because he just can’t stand this. She jerks away, just like she did on the subway after they told her about the bar and Sully.

“No.” She shakes her head, a few strands of hair escaping their pins. “No, you can’t touch me or I’ll just fall apart.”

“Ok.” 

Zelda tries to get it together for a few more seconds before she gives up, muttering, “Aw, hell.” She presses her face into Bucky’s chest, clinging to his lapels.

She cries for a while, huge, nearly silent sobs, and Bucky tugs her away from the stairs that lead up to the library and around the corner, farther from prying eyes. He holds her and tries not to cry too, his heart breaking with her as thoroughly as it did with Rachel, just a few nights ago.

Zelda pulls herself together eventually, pushing out of Bucky’s arms and wiping her eyes.

“I must look a mess,” she whispers, smoothing the wrinkles she left on his shirt.

“You look beautiful,” Bucky says, and it’s true. She always does, even with her cheeks red and her mascara smudged.

She takes a deep breath and then another. “Can we walk?”

They walk past the library and into the park. Bucky’s gotta keep his hands buried in his pockets so he won’t offer her his arm like this is any other afternoon. They’ve strolled through the park so many times, when the two of them were free but Steve had an art class and Rachel was working at bar.

Walking and music. Over the years, those are the activities that they’ve enjoyed together, just the two of them, apart from their respective sweethearts. Bucky gossips and cooks Jewish food with Rachel. Steve and Zelda talk about art, go to museums together. It had been the shared interests and activities that they enjoyed in various combinations of their little foursome that finally made Bucky think Rachel and Steve’s marriage plan could work. It’s so easy to find common ground with Zelda, even if their relationship is nothing like his mother would want it to be.

But Zelda’s gone now. Leaving Rachel means leaving all of them, and Bucky feels wildly off balance, knowing that this will be the last time. He does not ask who will walk with him now, and dance with him when it’s a dancing kinda a club, or just listen to music with him when its not.

“I’m so sorry,” Zelda says as they walk towards the museum. “You’re going to have to tell your  _ mother _ .”

Bucky’s stomach rolls. He hadn’t gotten around to worrying about that, yet. Mostly he’s been sad for Rachel, sad for himself and Steve and the stupidly hopeful dream they talked themselves into over the course of the last year.

“I can handle my mother,” Bucky says. “I’m more worried about you.”

Zelda sighs. “Of course you are. You’d be the perfect fella for me, James Buchanan. If only.”

“If only,” Bucky echoes. He doesn’t want to be anything but what he is these days, not since Steve started falling asleep in his arms again, but loving Zelda would be more convenient for all of them.

“Rachel told you everything then?” she asks. “About Dr. Ford?”

“The fella that wants to make an honest woman outta you? Yeah, she told us.”

“You don’t seem like you hate me for it.”

“I couldn’t ever hate you,” Bucky says, bumping into her gently. “You’re my best gal, even if you’re ditching me for a doctor.”

Zelda almost smiles, but not quite. She does link her arm through his, resting her head on his shoulder for a moment as they walk. Bucky’s glad. This is a fitting goodbye for the pair of them, second only to a final dance, maybe.

“I just can’t do it, Bucky,” she whispers. “I’m scared, all the time. I go to sleep terrified and I wake up terrified, and it’s just more fear for all the hours in between. And I can’t live like that. I’m not brave like the rest of you.” 

“It’s okay.” Bucky presses a kiss to her hair. He truly understands, in a way that Steve and Rachel never could. They’ve all been scared, but those two don’t seem to struggle to be themselves the way Bucky and Zelda do. Bucky’d been as terrified as Zelda is now, right after his parents gave them the boot, and without Steve’s bravery he’d be doing exactly what Zelda’s doing.

Fear’s not a big enough motivator for him anymore, not if it means giving up Steve.

“I’m not like Rachel,” Zelda continues, her voice breaking. “I’ve been planning on marrying a man and having kids for my whole life, I didn’t even know this about myself until a few years ago. I never even considered anything different, not until I met her. And God, I love her. I do. But I just can’t live like this, so scared I’m sick with it all the time.”

Bucky wraps an arm around her shoulders, squeezing her close.

“And kids, Bucky.  _ Children _ . That’s my first dream. I’ve always wanted to be a mother, and I can’t let go of that. Not even for Rachel.” She takes a shuddering breath. “Not even for the strange, wonderful little family we could’ve had. I just can’t.”

Bucky tells her he understands, because he does. He tells her it’s okay, even if it’s not. They walk slowly, prolonging their goodbye, but eventually they work their way back to the library, where Bucky will walk one way to the trolley and Zelda will go the other towards her aunt’s place.

“I’ll miss you,” Bucky says as they loiter on the street corner.

Zelda wipes more tears from her eyes. “Oh, Bucky. If there was a way I could go on being your friend, you know I would.”

“I know,” he says. Her doctor wouldn’t exactly appreciate her hanging around with a former sweetheart. Just like he knows Rachel and Steve wouldn’t appreciate it either.

“It was a nice dream,” Zelda says, wistful and sad. “For a minute there, I thought the four of us could make it work.”

Bucky nods, but it’s still too fresh, too painful for him to say anything more.

“You’ll look out for her won’t you?” Zelda eyes brim over with tears again. “You’ll make sure she’s not alone.”

“Of course.” Bucky pulls her into a hug for one last time. “I wish you nothing but happiness, Zelda Corrigan,” he whispers into her hair. Her path might be less dangerous than the one Bucky’s leaning towards, than the one she could’ve had with Rachel, but he doesn’t think for one second that it won’t be just as hard. “Nothing but happiness.”

* * *

He puts off telling his mother for longer than he should. When Zelda stops coming to church, Winnie gives him long, searching looks, her mouth pressed into a flat, grim line. By the time the kids are headed back to school in the fall, she’s making snide comments and dropping hints to convey the extent of her disapproval. Still, he ignores her, tells her that Zelda’s working strange hours at the hospital and really throwing herself into the job, her eye on a promotion.

He manages to avoid the subject until his birthday in September, when they’re all digging into a big meal after church, Rachel meeting them at his parents’ place after service. With no warning at all Winnie says, “James, are you even still seeing Zelda at all?”

Across the table, Rachel startles, her sharp breath tugging at Bucky’s heart all over again. Next to her, Steve starts coughing and Bucky closes his eyes for a second, trying to figure out the best way to tell his mother without hurting Rachel further.

“No,” he says, hoping to leave it at that.

The rest of the family stops eating to stare at him, even the twins. Next to him, Beck gapes at him, her eyes wide and shocked. 

“ _ No _ ?” Winnie repeats. “That’s all you have to say?  _ No _ .”

“Aw, come on, Ma. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Winnie doesn’t speak for the rest of the meal, letting Steve hastily change the subject (to The War, of all things, like anyone actually wants to talk about that over dinner.) A few minutes later, Rachel quietly excuses herself, and no one seems to notice that her eyes are red and her cheeks blotchy when she comes back.

After dinner, but before dessert, while Steve is helping Hannah with a drawing and Rachel’s talking to his father about their respective plans for Rosh Hashanah, Bucky slips out to the front stoop to catch his breath, to take a moment for himself. He’s unsurprised when his mother follows a moment later, settling down next to him on the top step, offering him a cigarette.

“You know,” he says, blowing out a lungful of smoke, “I sat right in this spot that day you kicked me out. It was hours before Steve turned up, and I sat right here.”

Winnie steals the cigarette from between his fingers. She closes her eyes and she inhales, sighing as she exhales. She gave up smoking for real years ago, but she’s always got a pack stashed somewhere for emergencies.

“No one kicked you out, James,” she murmurs. “You made a choice. Is that what this is about? That why you left Zelda?”

Bucky frowns, taking back his cigarette. “She tossed me over for a doctor, turns out.”

“Why?”

Shaking his head, Bucky smokes his way through his cigarette and when that’s gone, lights another. Winnie stays quiet next to him, the both of them content to watch the dwindling foot traffic pass as they sun gets lower in the sky.

“I don’t--” He starts to speak, to confess, but his voice gets caught in his throat. That old familiar terror nearly bowling him over, like he’s right back to that horrible day when his parents made him choose. He takes a deep breath and tries not to shudder the way Zelda did when she said, “ _ I’m scared. All the time.” _

Bucky’s lived most of his life scared. Even safe at home, happy and warm with Steve, that fear lurks in the back of his head, and he used to think like Zelda, so sure the only way to get a moment of peace would be to settle down with a gal, have a couple kids. 

But despite everything, Bucky’s pretty damn sure he’d rather live his life with one eye open, constantly worrying that they’ll get caught - that he’ll end up locked up or Steve will end up beat to death in a back alley - than hiding like Zelda’s going to hide.

For years now, he’s had a deal with his mother. Bucky’s supposed to find a woman and start a family. That’ll get him welcomed home for real and back on track to running the company. Ma is never outright said it, never called him queer or blatantly accused him of having an inappropriate relationship with Steve, but her expectations of Bucky have been crystal clear and Bucky’s never had any intention of going against them.

Until now.

Next to him, his mother stands. She moves down the steps, crouching below him so he’s got no choice but to look her right in the eye. Her face is still free of wrinkles, not a grey hair visible in all those auburn waves. It strikes him at odd moments, how young she still is. She got pregnant and then got married and then had Bucky while her husband was fighting Europe’s war, all before she was even eighteen.

It was just the two of them, him and his ma, for years before Beck came along, and George might’ve come back from his war before Bucky’s second birthday, but he didn’t really come back for a long time after that. His mother took care of everyone, her criminal brothers and her traumatized husband and their fledgling trucking company. And Bucky most of all. Some of his earliest memories are of holding her hand as she took him out on sales calls, and of the nights when she’d crawl into bed with Bucky because her own husband couldn’t bear to sleep so close to her.

Bucky’s always wanted to be what she wanted him to be. For a long time, he thought he could change himself to make her happy, to have the kind of normal life she always envisioned.

But this life is  _ his _ , first and foremost. It’s his life, not Steve’s or Zelda’s or Winnie’s. He has to choose for himself and he can’t be what she wants him to be.

“You don’t what, James?” Winnie asks, gentle and soft.

“I don’t think it’s gonna happen for me, Ma.” His voice is barely a whisper, barely audible above the general noise of Brooklyn, but he gets the words out.

Frowning, Winnie takes his face between both her hands. She stares him right in the eye and says, “Of course it will happen for you. It will happen because  _ you’ll _ make it happen. You can do anything you set your mind to, James. You’re a Buchanan and we always get what we want.”

Bucky doesn’t know how to tell her that a normal life is not something he can even pretend to want, not anymore.

Winnie kisses his cheek and goes back inside. Bucky stares at the street, lights another cigarette, and stays on the front stoop all the way through dessert.

* * *

Steve’s got a piece of apple cake wrapped up for Bucky and on their walk home, he lingers at Bucky’s elbow, staying closer than he normally would. Even Rachel is quiet, kissing Steve’s cheek and then Bucky’s before she goes up to her little room above Frank’s shop.

When they get to their apartment, Steve checks the locks and them checks them again. Steve’s paranoia is a ritual now, and not quite so neurotic as it seemed before Sully’s arrest. 

Bucky just kinda stands there by the door, letting Steve strip him of his jacket and kicking off his shoes at Steve’s instruction. They settle together on the couch, Steve running his fingers through Bucky’s hair.

“How many cigarettes did you smoke out there, Buck?” he murmurs. “You reek.”

Bucky laughs and rests his head on Steve’s boney shoulder. He closes his eyes and listens to Steve breathe. There’s the usual wheeze in his lungs, but nothing like the first half of a year when Bucky almost lost him half a dozen times over.

“She really did a number on you, huh?” Steve asks, his fingers combing a steady rhythm in Bucky’s hair. “I knew she wasn’t gonna take it all that well.”

“She wasn’t all that bad,” Bucky replies. “Probably already making lists of her church friends’ single daughters and I’m just fucking  _ tired _ , Steve.”

“Yeah.” Steve kisses Bucky’s forehead, snuggles in closer. “Yeah, of course you are, honey.”

Bucky almost tells him. He almost opens his mouth and says, “ _ Marry me. I changed my mind. Get hitched to Rachel on paper and marry me in your heart. Stay with me forever. I’ll be a confirmed bachelor. I’ll do clerk work until I die and never see my ma again, if it means you’ll be my family. Marry me.” _

But he doesn’t. It’s still too big, too dangerous. Bucky spent so much time convinced that he’d find a wife someday, that he can’t say it to Steve. Not yet. He’s got time to adjust to the idea of _ queerly ever after  _ without the safety of a a wife on his arm _. _

They go to bed and he fucks Steve for the first time since he got sick right after the new year. He’s slow, gentle, worshipful. He can’t say  _ marry me _ outloud yet, but he’s practically screaming it with every touch and kiss. 

After, the words feel easier, the future he wants more possible, but Steve’s exhausted, falling asleep before Bucky can even get them cleaned up properly. But it’s alright. Bucky’s got time.

He doesn’t say it in the morning, or a week later. He keeps telling himself he’s got time, even with the war escalating, even when Danny O’Neil from down the block gets drafted. 

He keeps on telling himself he’s got time until the moment his own draft letter comes in the mail, an innocuous envelope with sharp edges and crisp corners, his whole life changed by a few lines of ink on paper.


	9. Chapter 9

**1941**

The letter comes on the first of December, while Steve's at the art center. Bucky reads it three times before putting it in the center of the board on the bathtub in their kitchen and backing away from it slowly, until his back hits their closed bedroom door.

The draft's been in effect since October 1940. He and Steve went down to sign up together.  They even changed the service commitment for those drafted from one year to indefinite last summer, so it shouldn't come as a surprise, even if the US hasn't officially gone to war yet.  Given the year they've had - with Sully getting taken away and Zelda leaving and Steve nearly dying - it's only fitting it that it will end with Bucky getting swept up into the army.

Really, he’s barely even surprised.

Sinking down to the floor, he just sits there with his legs crossed for awhile. Eventually he looks at the clock, does some quick calculations, and realizes he’s got hours still until Steve will be home.  

And suddenly, the thought of sitting here alone on the floor, waiting for Steve, is completely unbearable. It’s harder to catch a breath, like the room is missing all its air, like they are back with five roommates in a rear tenement that had no windows and ventilation so poor that even Bucky spent a lot of time coughing.

If he stays here for another minute, he’s sure he’ll die before the army can so much as take his temperature. 

He scrambles up, grabbing the letter and pulling on his coat. Fleeing the apartment, he wraps the scarf Rachel made him for his last birthday around his neck as he hits the sidewalk.

Still in a daze, he trusts his feet to lead him. He’s not picky about where he ends up, so long as there is air enough to breathe. He just walks and breathes, as the sky gets darker.

It turns into a good walk, then too much of a walk, by the time he finally stops in front of his destination. Usually, he'd take a trolley, but despite all the blocks he crossed he can't remember it. He can't feel the cold either, even with the way he's shivering. It's like he arrives at Frank’s shop between blinks.

The bell above the door rings out as he pushes inside. The shop is warm and Bucky rubs his hands together while he waits by the front desk.

Frank appears from the back a moment later. He's got a phony smile on his face, one reserved for customers, but he immediately frowns when he sees Bucky.

"Oh no,” he whispers. Frank's had a rough year, too. Sully’s his best friend.

"Rachel around?" Bucky asks.

Frank looks incredibly wary, but he disappears into the back. Rachel emerges quickly, wringing her hands and worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

"You look terrible," she declares. "What happened? Was it Steve? Did he get his nose broken again? Or land himself back in the hospital? Is it pneumonia again? I don’t know if I can take it, if it’s pneumonia again."

Bucky hands her the letter. Rachel starts crying before she's finished reading.

"Oh, Bucky," she says, her big, dark eyes wide with horror.

"Don't," he says, taking a step back when she opens her arms like she's gonna hug him. In this moment, he understands Zelda’s unwillingness to be touched when she’s upset because if Rachel gives him anything like sympathy or comfort, he'll definitely lose this fragile, eerie detachment that’s currently keeping him calm and focused. That drove him all the way to Williamsburg on foot in subzero temperatures.

"What do you need?" Rachel asks.

"Dinner?" Hands deep in his pockets, he nods towards the door. “You off soon? It’s on me.”

Neatly folding the letter and holding it to her chest, Rachel turns on her heel and disappears into the back. She returns half a minute later, bundled up in a coat, hat, gloves, scarf. Bucky only managed the coat and scarf himself, when he sprinted out of the apartment before he could suffocate to death.

"Frank says I’m done for the day," Rachel says, following Bucky out the front door. “I’ve got all the time in the world.”

They end up at a Jewish deli a few blocks away, the one with the "acceptable" knish and the “inedible” matzo ball soup. Rachel gets borscht. Bucky gets coffee, but he can't even bring himself to drink it.

"They're giving you until after Christmas," Rachel murmurs. The letter is out on the table between them, Rachel craning her neck to study it. She takes a spoonful of soup and then lets it drip back down into her bowl like a waterfall. She's not doing much eating either. “How generous.”

"Reporting to the draft board December 27th."

"You just got this today?"

"Yeah."

"What'd Steve say?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing!" For the first time since they sat down, Rachel manages to look at him, scowling from across the table. She abandons all pretense of eating, crossing her arms over her chest as she waits for Bucky to explain how exactly that it is possible that Steven Grant Rogers had nothing to say for the first time in his life. 

"Well, I haven't exactly told him yet,” Bucky admits, wondering if he’s broken some unknown  relationship rule, here. If he should have just stayed in their apartment - a place that’s always been a sanctuary until now, until it betrayed Bucky by going suddenly airless -  to tell Steve first. “He's not home yet, teaching a class at the art center."

“Oh,” Rachel says, grimacing and confirming that, yes, there is some relationship rule Bucky is not quite following. 

He and Rachel have had some pretty deep discussions - on growing up, on leaving their families, on finding a new one, on being queer - but they sure as hell are nowhere near as close as Rachel and Steve. And on the surface, Bucky’s overwhelming need to see her, to talk to her first, is strange. But there is only one thing he wants to talk about, now that he’s had some time to think while he was blindly walking across half of Brooklyn. 

He’s just got no idea how to even ask for what he’s got to ask for.

"Have some borscht," Rachel says.

So they share the soup, passing the spoon back and forth between them until it’s all gone.  Rachel commandeers his coffee. She leans back in the booth and frowns at him. 

"If you just want some company," Rachel says, "until Steve gets home, if you just want me to sit here while you think about this, I will. But you keep opening your mouth like you want to say something. And you can say it, whatever it is, if you want."

"You gotta watch out for him, alright?" Bucky blurts out.

Rachel rolls her eyes, but her expression goes soft all over. She leans across the table and takes his hand. Bucky squeezes back and the contact makes him real, somehow. Since he read the letter, he's not been present, really. He's been disconnected, drifting around somewhere outside his body. Rachel touches him and he's real again. Painfully so.

"He's my family," she murmurs. "We're all we've got. Of course I'll look out for him. Of course I will. One of these days I'm even gonna get him to marry me."

Bucky flinches, because that’s it. That’s the one thing he doesn’t know how to ask for, and given how often Rachel’s been talking about it recently, he shouldn’t be surprised it’s coming up now. "You shouldn't do that, doll."

"Why not?" she asks, genuinely baffled. There was maybe six months there, when Bucky really thought it could work. He never said so out loud, too busy waiting for the other shoe to drop - and boy howdy, did it drop, over and over and over - but for a few months he thought he could marry Zelda and Steve could marry Rachel. He thought they had it all figured out.

There’s really no taking into account random circumstance, no limit to the numerous and creative ways life has of fucking with all your plans.

"I might not come back," Bucky says.

"Bucky--"

"I know there's not a war yet, but it’s coming, Rachel.” Bucky says, just like they’ve all been saying for months, just like Steve’s been saying for years. And maybe later, with Steve, Bucky will find it in him to be positive and hopeful that he can just do his time and get out unscathed, but there is just something about Rachel that’s always compelled his honesty. Even when he was lying to himself, it was harder to lie to Rachel. “Of course it’s coming and who knows where I'll end up or if I'll come back."

"You'll come back," says Rachel. Her grip on his hand is too tight.

"Maybe.” Bucky shrugs. The air is going out of this restaurant, too, but he’s determined to get through this. “Maybe not. And if I don't come back, Steve's got a shot at finding the real thing. He's not like us. He could marry a girl and be happy. Which I've been trying to get him to do for years, but if I don't come back he could. He really could. Only not if--"

"Not if he's already got a wife," Rachel finishes for him. Sighing, she slumps back against the booth and lets go of his hand. 

“I know what I’m asking of you, Rachel,” Bucky whispers. “I know how much easier life will be on you if you and Steve get hitched, but I’ve gotta ask.”

“You know,” Rachel says, “for a minute there, I thought we had you pretty well on board with our whole happily ever after.”

The deli is nearly empty. This time last year, Rachel would’ve leaned close, smirking as she said  _ queerly ever after _ instead.

Too much has happened since then for it not to have changed them all. 

“You know, I already feel married?” Bucky says.

That coaxes a smile out of Rachel. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, and for a minute there, you did have me on board. I was still on board, right up until I got that goddamn letter.” They both glare at the thing, paper slowly folding back up from its place on the table. “But I really might not come back, Rach. It changes things. How could it not change things?”

Rachel scoffs.

“It’s true! And given our luck recently, not really a possibility we can ignore.”

Rachel stares at him, eyes narrowed, lips pursed.

“Look.” Bucky runs both hands through his hair, ignoring the way they shake. “I’m just asking you take your time with it, okay? He could have a shot at the real thing.”

“You and Steve are the real thing.”

“I know. I know, that. But we never will be on paper. And if I don’t come back, then I want that for him. I want him to find a woman he can love. Who he can marry. Who he can have a full life with. Do you really blame me for wanting that for him?”

Rachel shakes her head and turns to look out the window. It’s started snowing, the world going grey and blurred with big, fluffy flakes. They are silent for a few minutes, Rachel cradling Bucky’s coffee cup, Bucky staring down at the draft notice on the table.

With this weather, the trollies will be packed. He’ll need to leave soon if he wants to beat Steve home, but he can’t bring himself to leave, not before Rachel says something.

It takes another five minutes for her to break the silence.

“There’s not a single damn thing in this life that’s fair.” Rachel sniffs, her eyes watering as she turns away from the window to look at him. “How many times am I gonna have to learn that lesson?”

Bucky doesn’t have an answer.

“Okay,” Rachel says. “We won’t get married until you get home.”

It’s a strange feeling, to be so relieved and so utterly devastated over the same thing.

* * *

 

On December 8th, after two long days of sitting by the radio and learning very new information - capped off with Roosevelt declaring war on Japan - Bucky follows Steve back to their bedroom. The front door is locked. Rachel’s asleep on the couch. 

Steve locks their bedroom door, too. For good measure.

“So, it’s Japan,” Bucky says, undoing the buttons on his shirt. Sniffing it, he decides it’s got at least another wear in it and he hangs it up in the closet. The trousers go directly into the hamper. “Not even you thought it was gonna start with Japan. And on US soil, too.”

Bucky turns around, expecting a response from Steve. He’s always got something to say about the war, and now that it’s here, Bucky imagines he’ll be subject to several lengthy dissertations before he reports to the draft board.

Instead, Steve stays silent, standing by the bed and staring at the wall where one of Sarah’s landscapes hangs, all green rolling hills and sunny skies.

“Steve?”

Steve slowly turns towards Bucky, his expression inscrutable, and something about Steve, standing there so quietly, looking so small, is more terrifying than planes over Hawaii and that draft letter, tucked away now in the pages of one of Steve’s notebooks for safe keeping. 

Bucky swallows and crosses the room, getting his hand on Steve’s shoulder and slotting his thumb against Steve’s collarbone. “Sweetheart.”

Steve blinks up at him, eyes focusing, jaw tightening. He squares his shoulders and tips his head back, like he’s reached some major decision in the span of the last few seconds. Bucky’s almost sure he doesn’t want to know what Steve’s plotting. Determination like this on Steve usually means a headache for Bucky.

“Oh, shit,” Bucky murmurs. “What is going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

“I don’t want to talk about Japan,” Steve declares, which, yeah, Bucky gathered that much from Steve’s total silence on the subject.

“Okay.”

“I don’t want to so much as think about Japan,” Steve continues, his hands finding Bucky’s hips and fingers digging in. “Or about Hitler or Roosevelt or the goddamn US Army.”

“Okay.”

“We’ve got a couple weeks till you go,” Steve says, like he’s laying out evidence about an argument Bucky is definitely not making in favor of talking about the war. “And let’s face facts, honey, a lot of that time is gonna get taken over by your mother.”

Grimacing, Bucky nods his agreement.

“So I want the next couple days, just you and me and a bed.” Steve catches Bucky’s hands and brings them up to the collar of his shirt. 

It takes him a split second, but then he understands, starts undoing Steve’s buttons. His fingers fumble; he’s too entranced by Steve staring up at him, blue eyes clear and locked on Bucky’s, voice steely with conviction, to pay full attention to buttons.

“I want you to touch me,” Steve says, as Bucky pushes his shirt off his shoulders. It falls to the floor, and for once, Bucky doesn’t kvetch about Steve leaving his shit everywhere. 

He runs his hands up Steve’s arms and then down his chest, following his instructions. When Steve tugs at the bottom of his undershirt, Bucky lifts his arms to help Steve pull it over his head, and then immediately gets his hands back on Steve, fingers brushing down his sides, over too prominent ribs, before settling against the dimples at his lower back. 

Between them, Steve undoes his belt and wiggles out of his pants. Bucky’s not super helpful with that, too busy feeling Steve up. Naked now, Steve steps closer to press a kiss to the hollow of Bucky’s throat.

“I want you to touch me,” he repeats, pushing at Bucky’s chest until he starts taking slow steps backwards, moving towards the bed. “And keep on touching me, until the whole world goes away.”

The back of Bucky’s legs hit the bed and he sits when Steve pushes on his shoulders.

“Until there’s nothing in your head but me,” Steve whispers, climbing into Bucky’s lap. 

Steve’s so fucking beautiful like this, serious and sure and utterly focused on Bucky, that it hurts to look at him. Bucky does anyway, gaze staying on Steve’s, reveling in the sweet, painful ache in the center of his chest.

“Until there’s nothing in my head but you.”  

Bucky pants and Steve keeps his mouth hovering a breath from Bucky’s, so close to kissing him and yet refraining. He rolls his hips against Bucky’s and Bucky’s head lolls on his shoulders. A shudder runs through his whole body and it’s a struggle to keep his eyes open, but he manages, can’t bring himself to miss a moment of this, sinking into the pleasure of being so close to Steve. 

“What do you say, tough guy?” Steve whispers, breath hot on Bucky’s lip. “Think we can make the whole world go away for a little while?”

For Bucky, they already have.

* * *

* * *

 

**2015**

Back in 1939, their sex life was wholly dependent on Steve’s health, a fact that Steve pretended not to realize and Bucky had the grace not to mention. 

Bucky’s got the memories back now, of starting something up only to have Steve’s labored breathing abruptly go from hot and heavy to downright scary. The wrong position or an awkward angle could fuck up Steve’s back for weeks, and that was never worth it to Bucky, no matter how eager they both were for it in the moment.

In this, as in most things, Bucky followed Steve’s lead. Waiting on Steve to come to him once they were living alone and free behind their locked apartment door was a continuation of the old paradigm, where Bucky refused to be the instigator, for fear he was taking advantage of his grieving best friend who’d just lost his mother.

And sure, eventually they figured out just what the hell they were doing in bed, had down the moves that wouldn’t hurt Steve, tried to keep things relaxed and slow instead of frantic and fast in deference to the irregular beating of Steve’s heart, but Bucky still got in the habit of letting Steve come to him. If Steve felt good enough to make a move, there was probably about a 50/50 chance of him actually being healthy enough for it. (His memories from the time when they lived with his parents remain foggy, nothing like the sharp, vivid details of their apartment and the bar, like his mind is still protecting him from that pain.)

Even remembering how it was with them once upon a time, it still takes Bucky awhile - Steve pulling back after a certain amount of making out, Steve just lying there with Bucky’s morning wood pressed into his thigh until Bucky gets up to make breakfast, Steve scrambling away to take a shower at the most inopportune times - for Bucky to realize it’s the reverse of their old pattern now.

Bucky’s been waiting around for Steve to make a move, like he always did back in the day.

But it’s not going to happen, because Steve’s been waiting around for the same damn thing.

From the moment he set foot back in the apartment, bearing gifts for Rachel and Bucky, looking elated and heartbroken and terrified all at once, Steve’s followed Bucky’s lead. From hand holding and bed sharing to kissing and coming out to the whole world. 

If Bucky’s waiting on Steve to bring mutual orgasms into their life, then it’s never going to happen.

This revelation dawns as they are brushing their teeth a few nights after Rosh Hashanah, standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the mirror, Bucky in two layers and Steve shirtless and perfect, even under the harsh bathroom lights. 

He stops brushing abruptly, freezing with his mouth full of foaming toothpaste as he stares at Steve in the mirror. Steve notices, frowning around his toothbrush.

“You ok, Buck?” he says, words garbled.

Toothpaste dribbles out of the corner of Bucky’s lips before he spits, a whole thirty-eight seconds before he normally would. He rinses his mouth and then turns, leaning with his hip on the counter so he can watch Steve straight on without the mirror.

He was beautiful when he was a fierce little scrap of a person, fighting to prove the whole world wrong, back when a fair few people thought he should have the courtesy to just die already, and he’s beautiful now, mouthful of toothpaste and all. 

Bucky looks him over, from his bare feet and his strong legs, clothed in soft pajama pants, to the muscles rippling in his chest and his familiar face, that same pink, lush mouth and long eyelashes fluttering against high cheekbones that Bucky’s known and loved his whole life. His eyes are bright and blue, focused so intently on Bucky’s for a moment before he goes back to brushing.

(He’s come so far. Eye contact - at least with Steve - is now a goddamn breeze.)

Steve bends over the sink, spitting and rinsing with much more care than Bucky gave the nightly ritual. When he turns to look at Bucky, only to find Bucky still staring at him, he startles.

“What?” Bucky asks, cocking his head to the side. Steve’s eyes are wide, like he’s having a grand revelation of his own.

“I just--” Steve clears this throat, a blush coloring his cheeks and rapidly spreading to his ears. Bucky watches avidly. “I haven’t seen that look on your face since 1945.”

Bucky leans harder on the counter, crosses his arms over his chest, smirks, and, knowing full well what look Steve is referring too, asks, “What look?”

Steve’s blush burns even darker. It goes all the way down his chest, and he shrugs, apparently at a loss for words. Usually it’s Bucky who can’t manage to talk these days.

Reaching out with his right hand, the one that remains flesh and bone, he touches Steve’s hip, right at the elastic edge of his pajamas, thumb slowly grazing his skin. A shiver runs through the length of Steve’s body and Bucky wants to see it again, wants to make Steve feel like that again.

“Just what were we doing in 1945, huh?” Bucky whispers, tugging Steve a little closer. “That had me looking at you like this?”

“Oh, um.” 

Steve turns toward him, slumping forward to hide his still flaming face against Bucky’s neck. His hands find the bare skin of Bucky’s lower back under all his layers, movements clumsy and hesitating, like he’s expecting Bucky to push him away. 

Instead, Bucky pulls him a little closer.  

“There might have been two days’ leave in London,” Steve says, words muffled against Bucky’s shoulder. “And a real hotel room with a lock on the door.”

That’s one memory Bucky doesn’t have back, and as much as he wants to hear Steve recount every detail of that encounter, he figures there’s something more pressing they ought to be talking about instead.

“Have you been waiting on me, sweetheart?” Bucky asks, running his hand up and down Steve’s back.

“No,” Steve says. “Not waiting. I don’t need anything to change if you don’t want it to. You’re here, Buck. You’re here and it’s a goddamn miracle and I don’t want anything you don’t want. So I haven’t been waiting on anything at all. However you need us to be now, that’s how we’re going to be.”

Bucky spends most of his time well aware of how great Steve Rogers is and how lucky he got to come out alive in the 21st century with Steve right there with him, but there are still moments where he’s hit straight in the chest with a bolt of gratitude and relief and awe, that someone like this loves him.

“Aw, pal,” Bucky says, wrapping both arms around Steve’s neck to hug him close. “I love you a lot, but did you ever think I might’ve been right here, waiting on you?”

Steve jumps at that, jerking his head up so he can stare Bucky down. Bucky grins and waggles his eyebrows. When he walks Steve backward, in the general direction of their bed, Steve finally gets the message and gives Bucky a familiar look of his own.

“Yeah?” Steve asks, smile transforming his face.

“So about this leave in London.” Bucky runs a hand up Steve’s chest and takes another step towards the bedroom. “I don’t remember it. Think you can walk me through it? Help me get that memory back?”

Steve laughs and tows Bucky along towards their bed.

* * *

London, it turns out, was their first and only opportunity to test the limits of Steve’s big, beautiful, gloriously functional new body. In the two days they were there, they never did find those limits, and given all they apparently did then, it’s a bit ambitious to start there after seven decades apart.

They make a decent go of it anyway.

* * *

Laying flat on his back, with Steve sprawled out on his chest, Bucky is the most comfortable he’s been in seventy some-odd years. He fully intends to stay just like this until morning, sleeping hard and waking early enough to get his mouth on Steve before breakfast.

It’s a great plan, but as Bucky is on the verge of drifting off into a satiated sleep, Steve starts wiggling. 

At first, it’s like he’s just trying to find the most comfortable spot curled up on Bucky, shifting and unable to settle right in like he used to, and Bucky can tolerate that but he’s got a serious problem when Steve tries to roll off him completely. 

Without even bothering to open his eyes, Bucky tightens his grip around Steve and keeps him right where he is.

“Buck,” Steve whines, still wiggling around. “C’mon. You can’t be comfortable. This big body’s gotta be crushing the life outta you.”

Bucky, having just experienced his first orgasm of the 21st century - and then his second and his third, this super serum is a fucking  _ trip _ \- has no idea what in the hell Steve is going on about. When Steve really starts to put some muscle behind his misbegotten effort to no longer be draped over Bucky like the world's best blanket, Bucky decides it’s time to figure it out. 

“Just where in the hell do you think you’re going?” Bucky mutters, putting some muscle of his own to the effort to keep Steve right where he is.

“This doesn’t work like it used to, not with this giant body.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“It’s too heavy!”

“No, you’re not,” Bucky insists.

Steve doesn’t argue, just brings his hands around to the small of his back where Bucky’s holding him. When he pulls gently at Bucky’s wrists, Bucky finally accepts that he will not be falling asleep in the next five minutes, and Steve will not remain on top of him. 

Bucky lets go of Steve and is finally awake enough to run Steve’s words over in his head a few more times, focusing particularly on phrase  _ this body. _

“I’m sorry, pal,” Steve says still speaking too quickly, as this is supposed to be a moment of post-coital bliss. He rolls over to lie shoulder to shoulder with Bucky and then goes digging around in the dark, finding Bucky’s hand among the covers. “I wish could be that little guy for you, wish I could curl up all safe and sound in your arms, but I can’t just crash out on top of you like that. Not with this monster body.”

For a few long seconds, Bucky can’t do anything but lie there in stunned, frozen horror. 

Suddenly desperate to see Steve’s face, hoping that his expression will give a single goddamn clue to what is going on in that pretty little head of his, Bucky sits up and turns on the light.

“Hey, warn a guy!” Steve protests, shielding his eyes from the light with both hands. 

“Monster body?” he hisses. “What the fuck, Steve. That is sacrilege. You’re fucking beautiful.”

Steve’s still hiding his face behind his hands, his shoulders curling up and in, like he’s trying to melt into the mattress and disappear. Like he’s trying to make himself small. 

“It’s just a lot of body these days, is all.”

Bucky leans over Steve, tugs his hands out of the way, and waits until Steve’s looking up at him to say, “Last I checked, this body’s still you.” He runs his hand down Steve’s chest, feels Steve shiver.

“I know.” Steve grimaces and moves to sit up a little against the pillows. “I  _ know _ .” 

Steve still sounds far too flustered, given what they just did, and Bucky can’t hide his distressed intake of breath, his fingers curling into a fist over Steve’s chest. 

“I know that! I know it’s mine.” Steve’s insistent, the words spilling out of his mouth in a rush. He takes a deep, shaky breath and murmurs, “I know this is me.”

“Well, I’m willing to spend a good amount of time reminding you,” Bucky says, hand moving down Steve’s stomach, the muscles there quivering as he breathes. “If you’d like.”

“C’mon,” Steve says, catching Bucky’s hand with his own and holding it still over his heart. “You can tell me if you liked him better. It’s okay.”

“ _ Him _ ?” Bucky asks, struggling to catch up. It’s whiplash, going from feeling so good to being on the verge of deeply satisfied sleep to panicking a little over confounding things coming out of Steve’s mouth. He breathes as steadily as he’s able and tries to really listen to what Steve’s trying to telling him. “You mean you? Like, you in 1942?”  

“There’s a pretty big difference between a pile of muscles and that sickly little thing that was constantly almost dying on you. You’ve gotta have a preference. Maybe it’s this, I don’t know, not like you were telling me if you had a secret thing for muscle bound jerks when I barely cleared your shoulder on a good day.”

Stunned silent, Bucky just gapes at Steve for a minute. 

To Bucky, there is essentially no difference. Steve is Steve is Steve, and sure, there’s a lot more of him now, but Bucky adjusted to that several hours after Steve came home to the apartment, almost a year ago now. He didn’t exactly notice the difference during the sex. It was still Steve and what he likes in bed still lines up pretty good with Bucky’s memories. It’s still his voice and his hands, those same moans and sighs that have always driven Bucky wild.

But it must be different, to be the one working with a lot of body these days. 

“You’re not going to believe me if I say I really don’t give a shit what you look like, are you,” Bucky says, sighing.  

Steve shrugs, looking all over the room but not at Bucky. 

“It’s you I’ve been obsessed with since before I can remember,” Bucky murmurs, slotting his thumb in the concave space beneath Steve’s collarbone. “And I’m not so picky about the packaging, turns out.”

“Ok, Buck. Let’s just go to sleep, huh?”

“Steve.” 

Apparently, some of Rachel’s constant, gentle prodding at them to talk about a damn feeling for once in their lives -  _ “I know it’s not the manly man way of a thousand years ago, but it turns out that talking about things and sharing your problems with your loved ones instead of letting them stew and fester is actually the healthy, grown up thing to do.” _ \- has finally gotten through to Bucky. There’s no way in hell he’s going to let Steve drop it, not when this is something that’s so obviously been on his mind.

“I liked that back in the day no one was trying to use your body to save the whole goddamn world,” Bucky continues, words measured. 

“ _ Bucky _ .”

“But you’re so much sturdier now, with these strong lungs and this reliable ticker.” Bucky splays out all his fingers on Steve’s chest, feeling his heart beat. “No vision issues. No hearing issues. No imminent threat of the common goddamn cold laying you up for six months.”

“Yeah, what’s not to like with that?” Steve replies but he still sounds off, bothered by something Bucky hasn’t managed to decode yet.

“I like that we match now,” he continues. “Sure, the change was more drastic with you, but pumped full of super serum like we are, it’s nice not to be the only one in this relationship capable of tearing down whole city blocks with our bare hands if we wanted to.”

“Now that’s a date,” Steve says, chuckling. He sounds more settled now, and it settles Bucky, too. “Mindless destruction, just for the hell of it. The stuff of true romance.”

“We’re a long way from egg creams and fifty cent tickets to the pictures, sweetheart.”  Bucky kisses the sharp cut of Steve’s jaw. “You couldn’t crush me if you tried, because I’m an equally ridiculous pile of muscles, these days.”

Steve cracks a smile. “Yeah, I guess you are.”

“Why are you asking me about this, huh?”

“It’s still strange,” Steve whispers, like he’s fighting against each word, like they are being unwilling pulled out of him. He’s curling in on himself again, head hung low as he looks down at his hands in his lap. But maybe Bucky isn’t the only one that Rachel’s getting through too, with her constant chatter about the powers of open communication, because Steve keeps talking. “How different this body feels. Do you have that?”

Taking a deep breath, Bucky considers this. He’s had enough mind stuff going on that he never really thought about the body stuff. His back and neck get sore from the arm sometimes, and he’s still not super comfortable being touched by more than four very specific people, but if anything this body feels like the only thing that’s really his. Some days, he trusts his muscles to know what he needs when his head does not. He listens when his legs take him under the table or into the closet to sleep when Steve’s away.

“I don’t know if I remember how my body felt before,” Bucky admits. “So I don’t know if I feel different. But I’m pretty attached to my robot arm now. It makes a good can opener.”

Steve snorts out a laugh and then gets quiet. Bucky waits, unwilling to turn off the light and go to sleep until Steve spits out whatever he’s got going on in that perfect blond head of his.

“It’s just, sometimes, it feels like I should be able to go back to how I was when a fight’s done. Like Bruce shaking off the Hulk. Like this body is one of Tony’s suits and I should just be able to take off and hang up until I need it again. After training, after a mission, I should just go back to myself.”

Bucky thinks about the way Steve carries the weight of the world with him everywhere he goes. He wonders if Steve feels like he can’t just set it down for awhile because to Steve, this big new body is the same thing as Captain America, and he can’t just put it down until he needs it again.

“This body’s the only one you’ve got,” Bucky murmurs, thumb tracing the sculpted planes of Steve’s chest. His skin is as smooth as is ever was, just running a few degrees hotter than it used to. “But you can leave the Captain at the door."

Steve lets out a big, shuddering breath.

“Like here,” Bucky says. “At home. With me. Like this? It’s all just you. Big body and all, there’s only Steve Rogers here. You don’t need to be Captain America. Just yourself. I don’t really know how to get it through that stubborn skull of yours exactly, but we’ll work on it.”

And Steve, who’s built an entire life in the 21st century on ignoring all weakness, on pushing through everything bad and hard, of wrapping Captain America around himself like a shield and a burden all at once, says the most shocking thing.

“Okay, Buck.”

Bucky blinks. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I’m doing this crazy thing where I agree with you. Surely, it’s happened before. You’re right. We’ll work on it.”

“Wow,” Bucky says. “Okay, then. But did the sex make it worse? Did you not like doing it when you’re all big?”

“No, I think it might’ve made it better actually.” Steve tugs Bucky a little closer and settles back into the pillows. He finally sounds relaxed enough for Bucky to relax in turn. “That was definitely Steve Rogers giving it to you good, not the star spangled man with a goddamn plan.”

Bucky groans, sure he’ll have that fucking jingle stuck in his head for the next 24 hours, minimum.

“It was just after,” Steve confesses. “When we were going to sleep, and curling up on your chest felt nothing like it used to. That freaked me out a little.”

“We can work with that,” Bucky says. He leans up to turn off the light, and then they both shuffle around in the sheets to get comfortable. They end up diagonal on the bed, so Steve can scoot down and lay his head lower on Bucky’s chest, firmly tucked under Bucky’s armpit, without his feet dangling off the end of the bed. It loosely mimics the way Bucky would hold him when he was small. 

Steve sighs as Bucky gets both arms around him.

“Better?” Bucky asks.

“Better. Fucking perfect, even.”

“Look at us,” Bucky says. “Saying things to each other and shit. And I haven’t even started therapy yet! Rachel would be so proud.”

Steve snorts, pressing a little closer.

“So,” Bucky murmurs, dropping a kiss to Steve’s forehead.. “Does this mean you’re taking me up on my offer to spend all my free time touching you?”

“Dunno,” Steve says, smile in his voice. “You still gonna get up at the crack of dawn?”

“0830, soldier. Rise and shine.”

Steve laughs, and tilts his head back to kiss Bucky, slow and deep.

* * *

In the morning, Wanda and Rachel are already seated at the kitchen table when Bucky strolls in, already twenty minutes behind schedule despite his insistence last night that the sheer joy of having sex again would not affect the routine. 

Rachel’s got the morning paper spread out in front of her, crouching close and using her big Sherlock Holmes magnifying glass. Wanda is seated next to her, knees pulled up to her chest, their largest mug cradled between her palms. 

“Morning!” Bucky says and then winces when his own voice rings unnaturally cheery in his own ears.

Wanda narrows her eyes at him and takes a slow, deliberate sip of coffee.

“Good morning, James Buchanan,” Rachel says without looking up from the paper. “It’s late for you. Did you sleep well?”

Wanda snorts into her coffee.

“Sure,” says Bucky, taking great care to keep his voice flat and emotionless. He goes to the fridge, starts pulling out ingredients for pancakes, Steve’s favorite. 

(Steve, who was glowing with happiness even as he went through his normal morning routine of complaining about the alarm. Steve, who managed to get Bucky to stay in bed longer with the potency of his kisses. Steve, who was muttering about being just behind Bucky when Bucky finally managed to crawl out of bed, even as he rolled over to bury his face in Bucky’s pillow.)

Bucky finds himself whistling as he stirs up the batter, and when he chances a look at the girls over his shoulder, they are both watching him. Wanda just shakes her head slowly but Rachel’s finally cottoned onto his good mood. She’s abandoned her paper to stare intently at him, eyes sharp and focused.

He turns around quickly, preparing breakfast as efficiently as possible. The first round of pancakes has just been poured into the pan when Steve stumbles in. Usually he’s slow and sleepy in the morning, but today he moves fast, right to Bucky, without so much as a nod in greeting to Rachel or Wanda.

“Hey, honey,” Steve says, wrapping himself around Bucky’s back, hand finding Bucky’s stomach under all his layers. “Good morning.”

Bucky does not point out that they already did their good mornings while still in bed and gives up on subtlety, turning instead in Steve’s arms and pushing a hand into Steve’s hair. Right there in the kitchen, the first round of pancakes due to be flipped and the rest of their family seated a few feet away, Bucky kisses Steve, open mouthed and filthy, tongue twisted around Steve’s, teeth grazing Steve’s lower lip. He tilts Steve’s head to the side to kiss him even deeper, pressing hard enough that Steve’s in danger of tipping backwards. 

It’s easy as anything to get his metal arm around Steve’s back, to dip him a little like he’s a dame in some classic Hollywood movie. 

Bucky keeps on kissing him, until Wanda huffs a breath and says, “Something’s going to burn,” and even then Bucky takes his time ending the kiss, making sure that Steve’s steady back on his feet and giving him a sweet, chaste kiss, and then another, to finish.

“Hungry?” Bucky asks.

Steve, bright red and giddy, nods.

At the table, Rachel actually breaks into applause as Wanda lets out another groan, hiding against her folded arms. Bucky still catches the quirk of a smile on her face.

“That was  _ amazing _ ,” Rachel says. “That was high romance. Like Bogart and Bacall.”

Steve, whose embarrassment is finally catching up with him, just stands there in the way of Bucky’s endeavor to salvage breakfast, shuffling his feet.

“Want to pour us some coffee, pal?” Bucky says, elbowing him gently in the direction of the coffee maker.

When Steve lifts the pot, it’s suspiciously empty, even though every person living in this apartment knows the exact right amount to brew in the morning to ensure everyone gets a cup, at least to start.

“Huh,” says Steve. “It’s gone.”

“Yes.” Wanda slurps her coffee. “I wonder how that happened? It’s almost as if someone made less than they usually would out of revenge after they were woken in the night.”

Bucky laughs at that as Steve - valiantly pretending he’s got no idea what Wanda’s talking about - goes through the cabinets searching for the grounds for a fresh pot. The walls of the apartment supposedly have some sound proofing, but for all Bucky knows Wanda’s got super hearing along with the litany of her other stunning powers. He can’t find it in him to be particularly bothered. Ear plugs exist for a reason and for once in their lives, they weren’t worried about being quiet.

“Is this not a little over the top?” Wanda says, waving her hand between Bucky and Steve. “You are both so old.”

Steve laughs at that, apparently already recovered from his embarrassment. He ruffles Wanda’s hair on his way to take a seat next to Rachel. Going about the business of making breakfast, Bucky hides a grin of his own. Wanda’s come a long way, too, if she’s comfortable enough to give them a hard time, if she’s teenager enough to be irritated and embarrassed by the adults in her life.

“Wanda, my dear child,” Rachel says. “Passion only grows with age, trust me on that.”

Groaning again, Wanda hides her face in her knees and folds her arms over her head, her limbs twisted into an elaborate pretzel that looks like the most least comfortable position possible to Bucky. She stays that way until breakfast is served.

And later, when they’re done eating and Wanda’s doing the dishes, Rachel babbling cheerfully about how good Beck actually was at cooking, the few times a year she ever bothered with it, Steve catches Bucky’s eye. He hooks his ankle around Bucky’s under the table, winks, jerks his head in the general direction of their bedroom, and waggles his eyebrows.

Bucky bites his lips together to hold in a laugh and even though he had big plans to ring up that therapist for an appointment today, he decides that going back to bed with Steve is a much better use of his time.

There is always tomorrow. Therapy can wait.

* * *

“You know,” says Rachel without looking up from the puzzle taking up the whole surface of the card table Bucky setup in her sewing room. Now that it’s winter, and she and Bucky both have less desire to leave the apartment, they’ve taken to filling the days with more at-home activities. This monstrosity was not Bucky’s idea and Rachel, the menace, has been steadily working her way through 1000 pieces of solid yellow, while Bucky sits nearby, useless. 

Bucky only subjects himself to the puzzle madness because being around Rachel while Steve and Wanda are out training is preferable to pouting alone in his room. 

“Before,” Rachel continues. “I honestly couldn’t tell if the two of you were actually sleeping together or not.”

The subject change is jarring, as twenty seconds ago Rachel was telling a story about Beck that Bucky’s heard forty times before. Scowling at her over the sea of yellow, Bucky gives up on getting two similar strange shaped pieces to fit together. “You thought about it?”

“Sure,” Rachel says, like it’s any of her business. She’s been nosy since 1939, no reason for that to change now. “But that was dumb. Now that you’re actually getting hot and heavy, it’s real obvious.”

“Are you trying to make me blush, Rach? Because I’m not Steve.”

Rachel laughs and successfully connects two long strips of border pieces, letting out a little  _ ah ha! _ as she does. Rachel’s better at puzzles than Bucky. He’d get much more satisfaction throwing all 1000 pieces right into a fire.

“I’m trying to tell you I’m happy for you, tateleh,” Rachel says, rolling her eyes even as she surveys the table. “The pair of you sure are something. I remember how it was, after Beck got tenure and I was successful enough that I didn’t hesitate to yell at a bunch of reporters about Steve being my fake fiance. We’d been together for decades at that point, but it was still different. To not worry about getting caught for the first time. I didn’t realize I’d always subconsciously been terrified about it before I wasn’t anymore.”

Bucky hums his agreement, glad that Rachel gets it like she always gets it. 

Admittedly, it’s getting a little ridiculous, how much time they are spending between the sheets these days. Steve’s using every excuse in the book to get out of Avengers things in favor of staying home during the day with Bucky, taking advantage of the hours Wanda is out and Rachel’s downstairs with Mia and Olive or napping. They slip away back to their room after breakfast and when there is some obligation Steve can’t get out of, sometimes he manages to come home for ridiculously long lunch breaks. 

And Rachel’s right. It’s different than every memory Bucky’s got from their old life. There’s no fear of getting caught, no need to keep quiet or be seen out in the neighborhood with the girls on their arms, just in case. There’s no hushed conversation after, fretting over if they were too loud, if someone might have heard.

There was always an edge of tension before, Steve checking the locks obsessively like he knew that was how Winnie found out even if Bucky never told him about it. There was always an undercurrent of dread, like they were living on borrowed time, like each time might be the last time.

But Steve and Bucky are out now, to the whole wide world. 

And sure, they are still hiding something pretty big, what with Bucky’s whole secret-identity, on-the-run-from-the-government situation, but it doesn’t translate into their sex life like the knowledge that any moment a bar could get shut down, they could get jumped and bashed, they could get arrested or worse. If someone were to walk in on Bucky with Steve’s cock in his mouth, the sex would be just about the only thing they wouldn’t get into trouble over these days.

Now, without that underlay of fear, there is more room for laughter, more room for pure, uncomplicated joy.

“Really, I think your campaign to seduce Steve away from being a superhero all the time is a good one. Real noble of you, Barnes,” Rachel says, smirking.

“Oh, yeah,” Bucky replies, leaning back in his chair and stretching his arms out over his head. “It’s quite the sacrifice.”

Rachel barks out a laugh, fits together another three puzzle pieces, and says, “Wanda called that number Natasha gave her.”

Bucky sits up straight in his seat, both feet flat on the floor. Rachel’s been bouncing from topic to topic all morning, unable to stay on one subject too long as something new pops into her head, but this is certainly the most interesting and important thing she’s said yet.

“Did she?” Bucky asks.

“Yesterday. She made an appointment for next week.”

“Wow.”

“She’s going to ask you to take her into the city, wait on her while she’s in there.”

“She is?” Bucky says, stunned. “Not Steve?”

“She specifically said she wanted to ask you.” Rachel looks up from the puzzle, pushing her reading glasses up onto the top of her head as she studies him. “I think you know what my next question is going to be.”

Slouching low in his chair, Bucky pulls up the hood of his sweatshirt, tugs the sleeves down over his hands, and nods. “Yeah.”

“So? Are you going to make that call?”

“Yes,” Bucky says and Rachel’s eyes go wide with surprise at his quick, ready answer. 

The modern state of psychology in this country has been a topic of many a conversation in the last few months, Bucky going to Rachel over and over again to confirm that it’s not all lobotomies and electroshock these days. He’s perused the internet, read some books from Beck’s library, and listened to Rachel detail the mental health services the Barnes House has on offer for the kids downstairs, but he remains wary. 

The history of the field is a little too close to brainwashing for comfort, but somewhere along the line he started believing Rachel when she said that the right resources could really help, that no one would make him do anything he doesn’t want to do, that therapy is just talking, to start with.

Bucky’s getting better at this talking thing, both with Rachel and Steve. It doesn’t seem too far out of the realm of possibility that he could keep it up with the lady Natasha recommended.

At the end of the day, Bucky knows the mess locked away in his head can’t be ignored forever, and no one has any other bright ideas for dealing with it.

“I almost called, you know,” Bucky says. “Right after you made me toss bread into the river.”

“Oh, really?” Rachel still looks surprised that he went from suspicion that this therapist would want to drill holes into his head to on board with the situation since the last time they talked, but she nods her approval anyway.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “And I’m still going to. Eventually. Assuming no one’s going to shove lithium down my throat the minute I set foot in that office. Right?”

“Right,” Rachel says, as resolutely as she did the first thousand times he asked. Over and over, she’s assured Bucky that there are bad therapists out there, but if he trusts Natasha, then they can all be reasonably sure that this one isn’t out to hurt him.

“It’s just,” Bucky continues, “it’s been really good lately, hasn’t it? Really, really good.”

Rachel smiles. “So it seems.”

“And jumping into all that Winter Solider bullshit, I don’t see how it can stay this good if I’m opening that goddamn box,” Bucky admits. He stares at all the yellow, eyes going unfocused until it’s just a big, colorful blur taking up his vision. “Do you know how many people I killed? No? Well neither do I and I don’t see how I can go to therapy, talk about murder and brainwashing, come home, cook dinner, spend time with my family, love Steve the way I want to.”

Shocked by all those words just falling out of his mouth without his permission, he chances a glance at Rachel, blinking her face into focus.

Until now, he’s done his best to keep the details from Rachel, even with the very worst of it being out there for public consumption, but something about the words  _ murder _ and  _ brainwashing _ coming directly from Bucky seem to have freaked her out a little. She’s pale, her eyes glassy.

“It’s going to be fucking awful,” Bucky murmurs. “And I just want to revel in this happiness a little longer.”

“Of course you deserve all the happiness in the world,” Rachel says, voice steady, despite the stricken expression on her face. “After everything you’ve been through. After everything Steve’s been through. But given the lives you live, it’s a risk.”

“I know.” Groaning, Bucky slouches low in his chair and pulls on the strings of his hoodie until it’s only his eyes remain exposed. Despite a vague awareness that he’s been living in a happy, glowy, sex bubble for the last few weeks, this is the first time he’s been forced to acknowledge it. 

And Wanda making that phone call is throwing a sharp light on just what Bucky isn’t doing.

“And if your ultimate goal is to walk around in public, holding Steve’s hand and wearing your own face…”

“Fuck. I  _ know _ .”

“We’re overdue for another calamity,” Rachel says, putting her glasses back on and turning back to the puzzle. “It’s been awhile.”

“Yeah.” Bucky messes with the puzzle pieces closest to him. “I fucking know, all right? But I’m just not ready, yet. It’s stupid, but I want to fuck Steve two thousand more times before I dial that number.”

“Two thousand, huh?” Rachel laughs, big and loud. “Real noble of you, Barnes. Oh, look at this.” With a few pieces, she connects two huge chunks of completed puzzle. “Ah ha!”

“You’re making me really hate the color yellow with this bullshit,” Bucky says. He hasn’t managed to get a single piece since sitting down forty-five minutes ago.

“We can get started on lunch, if you want.”

Bucky does want, but in the hall he hears the elevator ding, followed by the sound of quick footsteps, the front door opening, shoes being kicked off, and then Steve’s voice, hollering, “Buck!”

“In the sewing room,” Bucky calls back.

Steve appears in the doorway a moment later, flushed and beautiful, unraveling a scarf Bucky made from around his neck. “Got outta that charity brunch early,” he says.

“I can see that.” Bucky smirks, looking him up and down, from striped socks to messy hat hair.

“Hi, bubbeleh,” Rachel says and Steve jumps, like he didn’t notice her presence until she spoke up. That’s been happening a lot lately, Steve only having eyes for him. 

Bucky’s not the only one living in the sex bubble.

“Oh,” Steve says, going scarlet. “Hey, Rach.”

Rachel rolls her eyes and struggles to stand up. Steve’s next to her in an instant, helping her up and handing over her cane, making sure there’s no wobble in her knees before letting go of her elbow.

“You know,” says Rachel as she shuffles out of the room. “I’m suddenly exhausted. Really, so tired. I need a nap before lunch. I’m sure you two will find a way to amuse yourselves while I’m sleeping.”

“Uh,” says Steve to her retreating back. “Sure.”

“Check one of those times off your to do list, James Buchanan.”

“What?” Steve asks.

“Don’t worry about it, bubbeleh!”

“You’re a doll, Rachel Barnes!” Bucky yells after her, looking Steve right in the eye even as he delights in Rachel’s laughter, drifting down from the hall. “So,” he says, fully expecting Steve to haul him out of his chair and drag him off to their bedroom. “Seems like we both suddenly have a couple of free hours. How about that?”

Steve grins back, takes another step into the room, and pulls the door shut behind him.

“Really?” Bucky glances around, at the shelves of fabric, covered sewing machines on the table under the window, and the puzzle, half completed before him on a card table. “In here?”

Steve shrugs. “Our room’s too far away.”

That is sound logic, so Bucky nods. Steve crosses the room and when he straddles Bucky’s lap, Bucky’s hands digging into his strong thighs to steady them, Bucky’s grateful the girls could afford to buy chairs of such fine quality. The thing doesn’t even creak under the combined weight of two super soldiers and Bucky’s got plans to stay seated right here for a good long while.

* * *

When Wanda calls two months later - on a day that’s supposed to be routine training, on a day when they’re supposed to be back home in time for dinner, on a day just like any other  - announcing to Bucky that they’ve found Brock Rumlow and that the Avengers are flying out immediately, Wanda among them, all Bucky can think of is Rachel saying, ‘ _ We’re overdue for another calamity.’ _

“I am not asking for your permission,” Wanda says in his ear. “But I wanted to tell you, anyway.”

Bucky takes a deep breath, and then another. He does a quick inventory of five things in the kitchen, grounding himself in the moment. He does not linger too long on Rachel’s fretful expression as she watches him from her seat at the table, her lunch abandoned in front of her as she wrings her hands.

“Ok,” Bucky says. “Ok. Thanks for the call, kid. You stay safe out there. Focused. And listen to everything Steve tells you, ok?”

“Ok,” Wanda replies. She sounds relieved, like she was expecting a fight. “I will. Promise.”

Steve gets on the phone next, and he’s got that same tone Wanda had, wary, like he’s braced for a fight.

“I know you’ve gotta go,” Bucky says, before Steve can say it. “We’re not gonna fight about it. I’m not gonna try to talk you out of it. And sure, I’m not happy about the whole fucking situation, but I know there’s no way you’re letting Wanda out in the field for the first time without you, especially when it’s Rumlow. I don’t remember everything that went on with this guy, but don’t let it get personal, all right? You stay focused. You do what you do, do it well. And watch out for the kid.”

Steve lets out a big breath and says, “I love you.”

“I love you.” Bucky squeezes his eyes closed and it’s hard work to keep from shattering the phone with his metal hand. “You come home, safe and as fast as you can manage it.”

The news out of Lagos breaks a day and a half later, with crystal clear cell phone footage of Rumlow setting off the bomb in a crowded square before Steve could stop him, of Wanda - eighteen years old, traumatized, on her first real mission - redirecting the blast up and away and into a nearby office building.

“We were overdue for another calamity,” Bucky whispers and Rachel holds his hand. Even this is starting to feel routine, watching on TV from a world away as everything goes to shit.

This time, he only stays under the table for a quick twenty minute panic attack and calm-down. 

It’s a new record.

* * *

When Steve and Wanda finally get dropped off in front of the building - hours after they landed at the Avengers complex, delayed for reasons that were not clear to Bucky through Steve’s increasingly cryptic texts - Bucky leaves Rachel in the living room to wait by the front door.

With enough focus, he can hear the creak of the elevator cables, and as the ding in the hall signals their arrival, Bucky finally lets himself exhale.

He pulls open the front door, holding it back and ushering his family inside. 

It a surprise to see Wanda move so fast, just a blur as she rushes passed him, heading straight for Rachel. She sits on the arm of Rachel’s chair, curling up small as Rachel reaches for her. Face tucked down against Rachel’s neck, Wanda seems to collapse inward, her shoulders shaking as she cries. Rachel strokes her hair and murmurs something quiet and comforting, rocking them back and forth.

Rachel’s arms are a good place to fall apart.

For the first time since she moved in, Wanda didn’t take her shoes off at the front door.

Transfixed, Bucky watches them across the room, and something stirs in his head, an old, nearly forgotten urge to hurt whoever hurt his people. A protective instinct that got twisted up even before the Winter Soldier, somewhere between the time his tateh said  _ No heroics. You do what you have to. You protect the men with you. And you get out alive,  _ and when he fell off that goddamn train. Something that made him capable of slitting throats and making headshots when his orders weren’t even coming from Nazis yet. Something that made him the ideal candidate to do what Captain America couldn’t.

The memory returns like smoke, starting in a small corner of his mind and expanding until it fills every nook and cranny. Steve didn’t like it, didn’t want Bucky out of his sight for more than five minutes, but those were the orders and Bucky had to go. Peggy Carter went with him, to find nine Hydra Nazis, staying at an inn. Peggy poisoned their food. Bucky stabbed them through their hearts, to make sure they were really dead. Together they riffled through Nazi uniforms until one of them found whatever they were looking for - plans, maps, something. 

A farmer with a truck took them back to camp. They huddled down together, hidden amongst crates of supplies and hay. Peggy said, “ _ They won’t hurt anyone now _ .” And Bucky, with blood still crusted beneath his fingernails, nodded, told himself they wouldn’t be able to shoot at Steve, wouldn’t be able to put anyone like Rachel or his tateh on a train.

“Bucky?”

He blinks. And then he blinks again, shaking himself out of the memory until he can see Steve, still standing in the doorway with the shield slung over his shoulder, concerned and frowning. 

“Sorry,” Bucky says. There is the smell of rain and hay in his nose, the grit of dried blood beneath his fingernails, and a headache pounding away at his temples. It’s been so long since he’s experienced the pain of a returning memory that it takes him a few seconds to understand that it’s happening now.

There is no one he can kill to protect Rachel and Wanda, murmuring at each other in the living room. There are no throats he can slit to make sure Steve stays right here, safe and home and with Bucky.

But to remember now that he’s capable of it, has left him dizzy and reeling.

“Buck,” Steve whispers, reaching out to touch the wrist of the metal arm. Bucky blinks some more and realizes he’s still holding the front door open. His fingers have cut little grooves into the surface of the wood.

So gently, Steve pries Bucky’s fingers away from the door. He keeps holding the metal hand even as he shuts the front door, turning the lock and throwing the rarely used deadbolt too, for good measure.

“Sorry,” Bucky says again.

“What the fuck do you have to be sorry about?” Steve asks. He looks tired and seems genuinely baffled by Bucky’s apologies. Each time he comes home he sounds thinner, like he ages a decade each day he’s gone. Each time, it takes a little long for Bucky to get him to smile again. And this time is the worst yet, a cumulative effect of all the incidents before this one, plus the addition of Wanda’s involvement. “If anyone is sorry here, it’s me.”

Bucky, who endured Steve’s many apologies over the phone in the last few days since Lagos, closes his eyes.

“You probably can’t even stand to look at me right now.” Steve squeezes Bucky’s metal hand like he doesn’t even notice it’s not the real one he’s holding onto. “I understand.”

“Steve,” Bucky says. It’s a lot of work, what with the headache and the exhaustion, but he manages to look at Steve, just to prove him wrong.

“You must be beyond pissed,” Steve continues. “You didn’t want us to go at all. I promised I’d do everything in my power to stop with this shit, and I still went. Plus, I did exactly what you told me not to, Buck. It got personal and it made me stupid. Wanda shouldn’t have had to deal with that blast at all. It was me. Rumlow started talking shit and I just stood there. I just froze.”

Bucky heard all this before on the phone, too, and he doesn’t have the energy to rehash the same conversation another eighty goddamn times.

“The news is blaming her,” Bucky says, because this is new in the hours since Steve last called to apologize and blame himself.

“So is the goddamn Secretary of State.”

“What? Jesus.”

“That’s what took so long at the compound.” Steve drops Bucky’s hand and then drops the shield, just lets it thunk to the floor without any of his usual caution and reverence. He toes off his sneakers and then actually puts them on the rack for the first time in his life. “Tony flew in, met us at base, just to tell us about all his conversations with Secretary Ross. And then to try to convince me to make Wanda stay there instead of bringing her home.”

Suddenly, Bucky’s not tired. Suddenly, he’s once more capable of throat slitting and great violence, no orders needed. “ _ What _ .”

“Not as a punishment, apparently,” Steve continues, voice dripping with sarcasm, as if he hasn’t even noticed that Bucky is suddenly dangerous. Like he can’t hear the whirling metal arm or the steel in Bucky’s tone. “Don’t worry, Buck, they  _ assured _ me it was for her own fucking good. For her own safety and well fucking being, of fucking course. According to Tony, the Secretary of State will be more comfortable with it, even if Tony assures me that they aren’t blaming Wanda.”

Bucky glances over at the girls. Wanda’s still perched on Rachel’s chair, her back to them, but Rachel is watching them intently over Wanda’s shoulder. 

“Do they really think anything they could do to punish her would be worse then what she’s telling herself right now?” Bucky whispers, knowing that even if Wanda can hear them over here, Rachel can’t.

“Yeah.” Steve lets out a big puff of breath and runs both hands through his hair. “Yeah. Finally, I just fucking left. Just got up in the middle of Tony’s cajoling, took Wanda, and left. Like I ever, for one goddamn minute, was gonna even consider leaving her there.”

“Good,” Bucky says. He reaches out, gets both his hands on Steve’s hips, and tugs him closer. Steve finally settles a little, sighing as he drops his forehead to rest on Bucky’s.

“It’s gonna get bad, Buck,” Steve whispers. “Between this and fucking Sokovia. Plus, I’ve gotten the feeling that I’ve made the powers that be nervous since I came out, too outspoken, too hard to control, too ‘political.’ Something’s gotta give and I honestly don’t know what.”

Bucky takes a shuddery breath, and nods, his forehead still pressed to Steve’s. 

“Anyway,” Steve continues. “Given all that, I wouldn’t be surprised if you wanted me to sleep on the couch for awhile.”

“I,” Bucky says, holding Steve closer, “unlike all these newscasters and politicians and assholes with blogs who think their opinions matter, don’t blame Wanda. And I don’t blame you. I fucking hate all of it, obviously, but I don’t blame you. I blame the murderous fascist who had big plans to kill a lot of people with chemical weapons and then tried to blow up Captain America and a whole market full of people when his nefarious plan didn’t work out.”

“Funny how no one really is talking about that,” Steve says.

“Easier to throw vitriol at a teenager doing everything she can to keep people safe than it is to admit the world is just this fucking scary these days,” Bucky says. “It was a fuck up, pure and simple, but does anyone actually think the world would be better off if you hadn’t been there?”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “Yeah.”

“Boys,” Rachel says from the living room. “Come be with the family before bed. Just for a little while.”

So they curl close on the couch and sit together before bed, just for a little while, and with the all the things he did as himself, before the Winter Soldier, still fresh in his head, Bucky quietly resolves to call that number Natasha gave him, all those months ago. 

For real this time.

* * *

The sex bubble is officially burst.

In the days after Lagos, no one strays far from home, and they don’t stop fooling around completely, but there are just less opportunities, with the apartment so full all the time. When they do get off together - long and slow and drawn out at night when everyone else is asleep, quick and hot in the shower after breakfast - it’s not as easy to get lost in it as it was before. 

The world is encroaching on them again, the mindless bliss of the afterglow fading quicker. The little furrow of worry between Steve’s brows that only seems to disappear when they’re touching each other, reappearing almost immediately after he comes.

Still, an orgasm proves an effective sleep aid when Steve starts waking up from nightmares again, his uneven breathing and forced stillness enough to wake Bucky, too. In the dark, once Steve settles enough for the terror of the dream to fade but still remains restless, Bucky turns him on his side and curls around his back. He whispers comfort in Steve’s ear, gets a hand around him, kisses his neck as he comes, and then holds him close until he falls back asleep. 

The method is usually equally effective on Bucky’s own sleep habits, but tonight, twelve hours after his first ever appointment with a therapist, he can’t find his way back to sleep. Even sated, with Steve curled up next to him, breathing deep and even, Bucky remains wide awake. 

He stares at the ceiling for over an hour before giving up, sneaking out of the room with all the silent skills of the Winter Soldier, gathering his hidden emergency pack of cigarettes and warm clothes on the way. 

Out in the hall, something doesn’t feel right. All the little hairs on the back of his neck stand up and he freezes with the bedroom door pulled shut behind him, taking stock of his family.

There is Steve’s breathing, his lungs healthy and his heart calm. There is Rachel, the slight wheeze in her chest brought on by age, the little whistle of her snore. The end of the hall, where Wanda should also be breathing, is conspicuously silent, and when Bucky turns around, her door is wide open. 

Refusing to panic until there is something concrete to panic over, Bucky walks calmly to the living room. Bucky power walks to the living room. Bucky nearly runs to the living room.

There, out on the balcony, he can just make out the back of Wanda’s head where she’s crouched low in a patio chair. The eerie red glow of her powers lights up the night. 

Bucky takes three deep breaths and moves toward the balcony, snagging his nano mask off the bookshelf in the living room on the way. He makes a great deal of noise putting his Bob face on, hoping that he won’t surprise Wanda when he opens the door to join her.

She does not startle when he gets out on the balcony, just continues looking up at the sky. The city is too bright for stars, but Wanda appears to have made her own, hand outstretched, palm up, fingers splayed and crooked as she manipulates her energy to look like galaxies and nebulas.

“That’s a pretty trick,” Bucky says, moving toward the railing of the balcony. He lights a cigarette and leans back on his elbows, admiring the universe Wanda’s created.

“I am capable of making things of beauty,” she murmurs. “Not just destruction.”

“Amen, kid.” Bucky blows out a big puff of smoke. “You have a nightmare?”

Wanda sighs and twists her wrist, more stars exploding above her head, a Big Bang of her very own. “No. If I managed to fall asleep, I’m sure I would have one, but I could not even do that.”

She’s speaking Russian, the Sokovian dialect, and it’s taken Bucky this far into the conversation to realize he started it. 

“I don’t know if never falling asleep is better or worse than waking up from a nightmare. They both are terrible.”

“Agreed,” says Wanda. “I’m always in Lagos, now, both in my nightmares and my waking thoughts, instead of with my brother. So that’s a nice change of pace.”

Bucky snorts. “A goddamn delight, I’m sure.”

“How was your appointment today?” Wanda asks. 

When he was asked this same question earlier, just after he got home from the city, Bucky shrugged and said nothing. If not for Rachel having a bad memory day - calling Bucky by his sister’s name and asking Steve to stay in Brooklyn with her, telling him to let someone else go fight Hitler because she needed him - Bucky probably wouldn’t have gotten away with saying nothing. No one pushed him to talk, collectively too focused on Rachel to ask anything more.

He’d gladly talk for hours through the mother of all headaches, if it meant Rachel never having a day like this again.

But Wanda’s asking him now and it’s easier to talk to her - here in the dark, under the glow of her galaxy, knowing she’s been through the same damn thing - than it is to talk to anyone else.

“Not great,” Bucky admits. 

Wanda sits up straighter, tossing her hair over her shoulder and turning to face him. Her stars don’t falter. 

In the weeks since Lagos, she’s taken to her old big shapeless clothes, hiding her face behind a curtain of dark hair, and this is the first time Bucky’s really been able to see her face since then. She looks tired, the shadows making the circles under her eyes appear deeper, darker. Since moving into the apartment and giving into Rachel’s constant desire to feed everyone everything at all times, the sharp angles of Wanda’s face have softened somewhat, all her edges blunted. 

Now, she’s returning to her old gauntness and Bucky fucking hates it.

“I don’t think this it’s gonna work,” Bucky says. “Going to therapy as Bob. You know how the first appointment goes. Feeling each other out and talking about goals for therapy. And I should have been able to talk about that as myself. Rachel’s had me thinking about goals since I first got here. But even as I was telling the doc about these memories locked in my head, it felt like someone else. It felt like I was on a mission and this was my assumed identity and my goal was to trick the good doc into thinking I was a real patient.”

“That’s the opposite of what it’s supposed to be like,” Wanda says. “Therapy is hard and exhausting and there are things I cannot say, but at least I know it’s me.”

“Right,” Bucky says. “It’s like I need therapy to be able to be myself outside this apartment but I can’t really do therapy without being myself.”

“The James Buchanan Paradox,” Wanda says, cracking a rueful smile. With a poke of her finger, she creates a few more stars.

Bucky laughs and takes a deep drag of his cigarette, cocking his head to the side as he studies her.

“I never want to feel that way again,” Wanda murmurs, closing her eyes. “How Hydra could make you someone else. Could turn you off and on with a flip of a switch.”

“Is that how it was for you?” Bucky’s been curious about Wanda’s Hydra experience for a long time now, but he’s never known how to ask before this. 

Wanda smirks. “In the beginning. Until I figured out what they were doing in our heads and made it stop.” 

A headache throbs around his temples, but Bucky breathes through it. “I don’t really know what you mean.”

“Maybe it was different for you.” Wanda shrugs, crossing her legs beneath her. “But it was old conditioning for us. They tried to put words in our heads, like a switch, like a trigger, and when they ran through the sequence, we would be nothing but tools. Not people, just their weapons. Turned off, we were people, children even. Turned on, we were deadly and we were theirs.”

Goosebumps break out on Bucky’s arm, even under the layers he’s wearing, a shiver racing up the length of his spine. His breath catches in his chest and something whispers in the back of his head, clinical, precise Russian that takes him back to Eastern Europe in a very bad way. 

_ Longing,  _ it says.  _ Rusted. _

“I’m sorry,” Wanda says, switching to English. Abruptly, all the stars above her head are extinguished, and she curls down in her seat, knees brought to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs as she cowers back from whatever she sees in Bucky’s stricken expression. “Rachel said you don’t talk about Hydra. She said not to talk about it unless you brought it up first, and only then if you seemed okay. We don’t need to talk about it more.”

Bucky swallows, focusing on his breath in his lungs and Wanda speaking to him, ignoring the rumble of memories in his head, the whisper of Russian.

“Words?” Bucky says, his voice breaking. This feels more important than the therapy he lied his way through today, more critical to his recovery than anything he’s done so far in the last year and a half. “What do you mean?”

“They tried to put trigger words in our heads, a combination of things, laid in with torture and manipulation. Brainwashing. Electric shock. I am sure you know.”

“Tried?” Bucky says. “It didn’t work?”

Wanda smirks at him, and suddenly she is not that vulnerable teenager that beams when Rachel praises her knitting efforts or crows in victory when she manages to beat Steve at chess, one game out of ten. She is a dangerous thing, confident in her ability to destroy, so far from the girl who makes her own stars when none are visible.

“That conditioning was not made for someone who can do what I can do,” Wanda says, baring her teeth. “In our cell, after each session, I’d close my eyes and undo all their work, smooth out the ripples in my mind their torture left, make that word just a word, benign and useless. Then I would fix my brother. We got very good at pretending not to be people, when they turned us on, but even doing what they wanted us to do as ourselves was better than being  _ theirs _ .”

_ Longing,  _ whispers something in Bucky’s head, the Russian oozing out of the cracks in the memory box.  _ Rusted. Furnace. _

“Oh,” Wanda says, blinking. “You know.”

Bucky sinks down, sitting with his back to a row of brick planters, and stubs out his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe.

“I don’t know if I know,” Bucky admits, proud that he’s at least retained the ability to speak, even with his hands shaking and his heart racing. “But if it’s true, and I’ve got their words in my head--” 

He can’t bear to go on, can’t bear articulating the horror of this particular  _ what if. _

“Than they could still turn the Soldier on,” Wanda finishes for him. She snaps her fingers, but there are no stars this time. “Like a switch.”

“Fuck,” Bucky whispers.

Slowly, Wanda gets up from her chair and moves towards him, her bare feet silent on the tile floor. If Bucky were capable of doing anything but sitting here, shaking, he’d tell her to put on some goddamn socks. Spring is still months away and the weather is cold. 

She sinks down next to him and after a few silent minutes, she leans sideways, until her shoulder is pressed up against his. “I can look,” she whispers. “I can see if you have the triggers. Anytime you like, I can look.”

They stay like that, seated on the cold floor, as dawn breaks and the world gets lighter around them. They are still there when Steve finds them, a hour before Bucky’s alarm is set to go off. He stares at them in concern for a few seconds before Wanda says, “We’re fine. What happened now?”

And something has to have happened, for Steve to be up this early, that furrow between his brows so deep it might as well be the grand fucking canyon. 

Sighing, Steve comes out fully onto the balcony, pulling the door shut behind him. His feet are bare too, but at least he’s not shirtless. He sits next to Bucky, leaning into Bucky’s other side, finding Bucky’s hand and lacing their fingers together.

“Tony called,” he murmurs. “The Secretary of State is flying in this afternoon. He wants to meet with us.” Grimacing, Steve leans over Bucky to look right at Wanda. “All of us.”

With the thrum of Russian still buzzing in his brain, Bucky thinks,  _ We’re overdue for another calamity. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Biggest of thanks to the best of all betas, AJ and Di. This chapter is so much better than it was a week ago thanks to their efforts.
> 
> We are really getting into it now!
> 
> [Tumblr!](http://jaxington.tumblr.com/) I have one. I even check it! Sometimes.

**Author's Note:**

> Come cry with me about James Buchanan Barnes on [Tumblr!](http://jaxington.tumblr.com/)


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